By Amy Rosen, from PerceptiveTravel.com

From a childhood memory to moving around her native city, the image of Toronto’s CN Tower stays etched in the mind—and in view.

This true story begins with a false memory, though one I was certain was 100% accurate up until late last month.

On the eve of its 35th anniversary, I was recounting the time my grandmother, Bubi Fran, piled my two older brothers and me into the back of her Datsun so that we could bear witness to history: We were off to see a helicopter attach the final piece — the antenna mast — to the top of Toronto’s iconic CN Tower. “It was a day I would never forget…” I started telling my niece Emily, as she listened with wide-eyed amazement.

“Oh really?” interrupts Emily’s father, my brother Marty, in a voice best described as skeptical amusement (never a good sign.) “Continue,” he urges. “I’m interested to hear how this ends.”

And so I do. “The skies were gray but our hearts were light with anticipation,” I say, turning my attention back to Emily, “as dozens of cars waited at the base of the CN Tower for a special military helicopter to arrive. We heard it long before we saw it,” I continue, covering my ears to illustrate the loudness of that long ago moment.

“Straining our necks looking through Bubi’s rain-lashed windows, we were trying to catch the first glimpse of the giant helicopter until suddenly, there it was — piercing the thick clouds with its mighty blades, swooping down over us with antennae pieces dangling from long chains like great whales. We honked our horns and cheered and shouted, and then the helicopter flew back up into the clouds and out of view. It was the most amazing sight I had ever seen, and then we went for ice cream. So basically, best day ever.”

At this point applause wouldn’t have been out of the question. Emily is grinning ear-to-ear, but so is Marty (never a good sign), and since he was also in the car and is two years older than me, he has a very different, and some would say more accurate take of that long ago day.

“That’s a great memory Amy,” says Marty, “but here’s what really happened.” He then explains (with great mirth I should add), that while we did go to see the top being put on the CN Tower, “And you’re right in that it was a rainy day, but it was very foggy too,” he says. “In fact, it was so foggy that after waiting an hour, they announced that they had to call it all off due to weather.” Dramatic pause. “So you never actually witnessed the top being put on the CN Tower. Also,” he adds, “Bubi Fran never had a Datsun.”

So, all these years later it turns out my recollection was based on one part true memory and three parts 1970s-era news coverage. What a creative young mind I had! Still, be it truth or fiction, the CN Tower was and remains a large part of Toronto’s collective identity and more specifically, part of my everyday life in an enduring and endearing way.

A Tower to Top Them All

Built out of necessity in response to the downtown core’s sudden boom in steel-famed skyscrapers in the 1960s (including the six tower Mies van de Rohe designed Toronto-Dominion Centre), while ushering Toronto into the modern era, these new builds also interfered with the city’s telecommunication signals. The Canadian National Railways (CNR) proposed a solution: erecting a communications tower where height was the structure’s raison d’etre. As plans took shape and it became obvious that in order to tower over all of the city’s other towers, the proposed CN Tower may in fact become the world’s tallest, the blueprints were altered to achieve this lofty goal.

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Traditional Scottish music from the Isle of Skye, hip hop from Edinburgh, and a top cellist playing Bach. A workshop in lantern making. Talks on Scottish nationalism, ecology, the economy, and religious differences. A dawn hike up the mountain. A morning worship service. A giant ceilidh.

All of that is just small part of what goes on during the Solas Festival. This takes place 24 to 26 June this year, in central Scotland, in Wiston, near Biggar, which means it is located about halfway between Glasgow and Edinburgh.

The word solas means light in Scottish Gaelic (and in Irish, too). That name for the festival was chosen with care. Art, music, film, theatre — and a heart for social justice is how the festival organizers describe their focus, and that ethos runs through the music, the talks, the theatre, and the whole idea of the festival, which is to get people talking, thinking, and celebrating the questions and connections which arise from these things. While I was in Glasgow during Celtic Connections this winter, I had the opportunity to chat with several of those involved with the festival. It quickly became clear that they are interested in inviting dialogue and questions while celebrating the arts, faith, and thoughtful conversation. Solas is also a very family friendly festival, with many things families can do together.

A concert by Scots trad award winning musician Emily Smith, an interview features major Hollywood producer Alan Greenspan, workshops in samba drumming, waulking songs, and lithographs, presentations from storyteller Gerry Durkin and children’s author Matthew Fitt, collaborations from musicians just on tap for the Solas festival stages: there is a lot going on.

“Solas Festival aims to create a generous, hospitable space in Scotland where the arts can be performed and enjoyed by all,” write the festival board. “Our programme also makes space for challenging debate with activists, writers and thinkers from across the political, cultural and religious spectrum.”

In case you were wondering, there’s not a bit of preachy tone about it either, rather one of respect and invitation. Along with celebration and good fun and loads of music, as well. A bold celebration and exploration of the relationships between art, faith and justice, that’s the premise , and one that is engagingly carried out. Even if you’ll not be making it out to the festival, an exploration of the Solas Festival web site is still well worth your time.

photograph of Emily Smith is copyrighted. thank you for respecting this.

“We never used to have all of these picky eaters with their food allergies.”

As a thrifty child of the Depression, my Mom has no patience with people who won’t just shut up and eat. I get that, and until recently I’ve been able to eat pretty much anything and so has my family, so I agreed with her.

Now, however, my teen daughter is tussling with some digestive issues and has become lactose-intolerant.

We spent a few weeks figuring out which fake milk tasted best and didn’t have a weird taupe color (winner: the H-E-B grocery chain’s Mootopia) and suddenly, I’m having to think about dietary restrictions in a way that I hadn’t before, including when traveling.

How Some Travelers Handle Food Restrictions

Here are some thoughts and resources….

From travel photographer Alison Cornford-Matheson:

“This is a hot topic for me right now as I just learned I may in fact have to go gluten-free. I’m experimenting with it now as I wait for a diagnosis. I live in Belgium and food and dining out is a big part of my life. It’s starting to be more recognised in Brussels at least but still not easy. Bread and pasta free Europe… not so fun.”

From writer Lanora Schoeny Mueller:

“France + Italy + LactAid = dairy-free tragedy averted.”

From entrepreneur Shennandoah Diaz:

“I was born on a dairy farm and have to take my own food with me to visit my parents. If I eat gluten or dairy it’s bad for me. Just suffered in Cancun – everything had gluten, dairy, sugars, etc. in it. Should have packed more food! I took gluten-free snacks, nuts, dried fruit, tea, Kashi instant oatmeal, snack bars and Splenda, but everything they made had dairy in it, even the vegetables. I wasn’t prepared.”

Shennandoah also told me that she wishes she’d checked luggage so that liquids restrictions wouldn’t have applied and she could have taken some almond or soy milk.

From traveler and author Aline Dobbie:

“India is [a good] country for gluten problems; they even have other breads made from chick pea or corn flour (but glorious rice is the answer.)”

Extended world traveler Jeanne Dee of SoulTravelers3 fame has been dealing with recent severe dietary restrictions lately (not sure why, she jokes that she, “Must have eaten the wrong Indian food while in Penang,”) but here’s how she’s handled it in remote areas:

“…had to carry a whole bag of herbs and medicines…but I managed quite well. I did miss out on some great food, but I enjoyed some special things too, since I could have bread and simple soups. Bhutan was harder because I cannot have any spice and the food tends to be very spicy. Jordan was fairly easy as I can have bread and hummus. I carried seaweed and miso in my bag too so that I could make a soup out of hot water if nothing was available that I could eat, but didn’t need to use it too much. I could only drink warm water, so that was a challenge, but I managed with a small thermos.”

Jeanne had all of this written down by a doctor to make airport security checkpoints do-able.

Some Resources for Travelers

**  Debbie Dubrow has a series of posts about food allergies on her Delicious Baby family travel blog.

**  Tripbase has a post telling you how to say “I’m Allergic to Peanuts” in 45 languages.

**  Celiac sufferers can get language cards on Celiac Travel that explain their situation.

**  Katie Aune launched a whole blog called Globally Gluten Free: A Resource for Gluten Free Travel.

Since this is all new to me, I’d love to hear more comments and feedback below about how you handle dietary restrictions while traveling. Thanks so much for your thoughts!

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The deep wooded forests of northern Maine, the working waters of the Great Lakes, the prairies of North Dakota, the winding mountain roads in Montana, the Pacific Ocean shore in Washington state: it is a long trip along the northern borderlands of the United States from one ocean to another. That is the trip Howard Frank Mosher sets out on to mark his fiftieth year.

Mosher is a novelist by trade, a man who lives in the forests of New England. On his trip along northern borderlines, he talks with and of the people he meets in short chapters, vignettes of a sort, really, in North Country. A Green Mountain Spy Story, The Fisherman and the Pipe Carrier, Wild Rice and Blue Rollers, Notes from the Red River Valley, The Veterinarian and the Visionary and Crossing the Cascades are titles of he chooses for some of them, titles which give a taste of the observer’s style Mosher chooses for most of his journey. With occasional loops back into his own history with Vermont, fishing, and writing, it is a mostly steady journey westward. Off the beaten path, most of the time, but that does not seem to be the point of Mosher’s travels. Experiencing what is going on in the moment and waiting to see what’s next, and who’s next, and letting the dots connect if they will and not if they don’t seems to be his approach.

Mosher took this trip and wrote this book in the years before September eleventh. Some things have changed to a great ot lesser degree, and no doubt the circumstances of the people he met have changed too. Border crossings are different these days, and there have been economic changes which have rippled across this part of the American landscape as they have across others.

I came across North Country in a library, on my way to looking for something else. As it was published some years ago, after reading it, I looked to see what had been said about it. The impact of the people Mosher met was a strong thread, as was the fact, lamented by many, that there were no maps in the book. For me, the presence that lingers is that of the landscapes, the waters, the plains, the forest, the mountains, and for that no maps are needed.

“If we were on a plane, it would be safe to turn on our approved electronic devices.”

I got a laugh for that line, but upon reflection it seems to be one of those things you say when you’re impaired that seem entirely effing brilliant at the time, and utterly banal when you’ve got a clearer head.

While I’d ingested no controlled substances that day, I was at the summit of Pike’s Peak in Colorado, elevation 14,110 feet, well above the 10,000 feet where air travelers are allowed to power on their iPods and laptops.

I’d taken the cog train up from Manitou Springs, which climbed the 7,600 feet in an hour and half. When I boarded, I was more concerned about the temperature at the summit — 26 degrees with the wind chill, while it was in the mid-70s down below — than I was with the altitude. I haven’t had too much trouble with altitude before, while backpacking and such. So it was surprising  when the trained reached the summit, and I felt a little woozy when I stood up — like I’d had a glass or two of wine on an entirely empty stomach. Everything felt sort of floaty and weird as I walked around up top — perhaps not the most desirable sensation, as I was skidding along gravel near unrailed cliffs.

I survived without incident, though, and after a while returned to the train for the descent. An older woman seated across from me gave me a toothy smile, revealing gums turned purple.

***

“Got Oxygen?”

So say the many t-shirts for sale at the gift shop at the summit. It seems that at 12,000 feet,  the barometric pressure is such that we suck in roughly 40% fewer oxygen molecules per breath,  creating oxygen deprivation, a situation which the human body obviously does not prefer. (People have died on the train, the conductor confirmed, so it’s important to heed the advice not to board if you’re unhealthy.)  You can acclimatize to this altitude, of course, as I have in the past when I’ve been near that height, but it takes time: if you’re over 10,000 feet, it’s best to increase your altitude by 1,000 feet per day. Although the cog train was hardly zipping along on its very steep grade, we did climb nearly 8,000 feet in 90 minutes. (Here’s a nice explanation of altitude’s effects on the human body.)

The compensation, though, comes on the descent: all those glorious oxygen molecules flooding easily into my lungs felt fantastic, almost euphoric. I was not at all surprised to see broad smiles on my train companion’s faces — and relieved to note that all gums were, once again, a lovely shade of pink.

[Photo by Alison Stein Wellner]