These three little words keep echoing in my ear…..
     …“Where’s my wallet?”
     You know that sickening feeling you get when your wallet is missing.  Did you leave it at the last store when you opened it for your debit card, your arms laden with stuff, you were running late?  Did you drop it somewhere? Think!  Think!  Think!  Your entire life is in that wallet: drivers’ license, health card, credit cards…but thankfully not much cash.  The money isn’t important anyway…it’s those cards!
     Now imagine when that happens away from home.
     Three times I have suffered the wallet disappearing act.  Three times I’ve had to start my life all over again.  And each time I tell myself, never again.  My purse/wallet will never leave my sight!

     We were in Lima, Peru, years ago.  I used a backpack purse with three compartments to allow freedom of movement for my arms.  Before we left the hotel to peruse the fascinating streets, our hotel concierge warned: be careful of your purses and wallets.  The people here are very poor and they are experts at removing your valuables.  We smiled and waved as we exited the lobby.  Did he think we were born yesterday?
     The streets were crowded: colourful and exciting.  Along a stone walled building a local artist was exhibiting his work.  We stopped.  One of his paintings grabbed our attention.  I remember leaning towards it for further study.  That’s when I felt a slight jostle, readjusted my purse shoulder straps, and carried on.
     Only when we got back to the hotel did I discover the neat slit (by a very sharp knife) in the middle compartment where my wallet had been.  Disbelief was followed by horror was followed by oh no!  Cancellation of credit cards…phone calls back home…and on and on.

     In Madrid, Spain, when we were there many years later, the economy was poor, unemployment high, and people desperate.  I followed my husband onto the escalator carrying hand luggage with purse slung on my back.  Packed escalators forced a face-to-back ride to the next level.  I felt the guy behind me pressing too close, turned around, gave him a dirty look.  That must have been when the heist happened. 
     Once we got to our hotel, surprise! I couldn’t find my wallet.  The fallout from this robbery was worse.  On a hotel phone call to my Canadian bank I waited, fuming, for 30 minutes while my call to Canada was redirected to a call centre in southeast Asia because of the time difference they said. This made no sense to me and even a later verbal and written complaint to the bank for this treatment elicited no response.

     In Toronto’s Pearson Airport, our check-in to the Middle East was hampered by no visa.  Our hosts in Abu Dhabi had assured us our visa would be issued in the airport when we arrived but our Canadian agent wanted one now.  Because of the kerfuffle, we were on hold.  I remember putting my purse down on the floor beside me, partially hidden and protected by my carry-on. 
    When we left the counter, my purse was gone.  Horrified, I contacted airport security who blithely commented this type of theft happened at least ten times a day.  They suggested I could search nearby trash bins but probably, they comforted, the professional thieves were far away by now.  Since my wallet contained company, as well as personal credit cards, my life became a desperate merry-go-round of panic phone calls.
     So, no matter where I am, when I hear someone say…where’s my wallet?....
     I shudder sympathetically.

     For the longest time we couldn’t figure out the origin of this maddening fine black gritty dust; it filtered everywhere in our rental casa in León, Nicaragua.  Settled in our clothes, on our bare feet, on the bottoms of our sandals, on table tops.  With windows and doors open trying to catch the slightest breeze in this 35 C (90 plus F) heat, black dust swirled in through the iron protectores coating the computer, bedding, floor, counters…that damn black dust saturated my life driving me to distraction! 
     No wonder the women in our lower/middle class neighbourhood were constantly mopping, sweeping, splashing water on their front door stoops.  I felt like a coal miner’s daughter.

     And then came the epiphany.
     It began with a stop at Cerro Negro (Black Hill), an active volcano 22 km from León. The youngest volcano in Central America---its first eruption was in 1850, the last in 1999---it has erupted 23 times since its beginning. The volcano is 500m (1640 ft) high and is a basaltic cinder cone. Elevation: 726m (2382ft).
     Based on its past history a significant eruption is predicted in the near future. Rather than lava (which occurs mainly near the base), Cerro Negro expels ash and tephra (rock particles). A 1995 eruption, followed by another eruption from a nearby volcano in 2015, produced a thin layer of ash on León; traces of the ash are found in the city even today.
     Eureka…that was it!  Those fine black particles driving me crazy were residual ashes from volcanic eruptions that began 22 years ago!  No wonder Nicaragua is known as the Land of Lakes and Volcanoes!

     Cerro Negro attracted us for many reasons.  Main one was its reputation as location for a new extreme sport in Nicaragua, supposedly a first in the world: volcano boarding.  A resident Brazilian developed the idea in 2002. 
     We wanted to witness the foolhardy souls who ‘boarded’ down the side of this volcano.
     To get a feel for the lay of the land, we followed a man-made trail up the volcano’s more rocky side to about 250 m (820 ft) from the top.  The trail continues to the top but we chose to stop at this point.  Even at this elevation we felt the strong winds that sometimes force boarders to retreat to a safer elevation until the winds calm.  Ever have the sensation of being blown off into cinder space?  We did.
     While climbing the volcano, we met two groups of boarders as they made their way to the top.  Participants must carry their own boards plus a backpack containing protective goggles and boarding suit.   We also watched them slide down, a plume of tiny black cinders trailing behind them, goggles and suits decorated with black dust when they hit bottom. As one of the boarders confessed, when you finally get to the top and look down, wa-a-ay down, and the wind is blowing, you suddenly wonder what the f--- am I doing up here?

     Most people use the board to sled from the top.  Experts remain standing by using a snow boarding technique on a specially designed board.  The volcano’s surface consists of fine/small cinders lying loosely along a slope of 41 degrees; foolhardy souls can hit speeds of up to 50 km/hr (30 mph) as they race down.  Children ten years and over can test their grit on Cerro Negro but only if careening down the incline with a qualified guide. 
     Lest you think this sport is only for the young, it is not.  Our guide told us of accompanying a 65-year-old man who made the trip to León specifically to volcano board on his birthday.  He likened it to making love…spending 45 minutes in foreplay getting to the top and then the climax, screaming down the hill in minutes.
     Suddenly I had an entirely new outlook on the black volcano dust in our casa.

Is he homeless? Sick? What is he doing here? How did he get here? Where is he from?
     A one-legged amputee, the old man sits on the ground leaning beside his wheelchair and against the black wrought iron fence that borders the church in our neighbourhood of Zaragoza.  One day he is not there, the next day he is. 
     We regularly walk seven blocks to centro for shopping, banking, park concerts in León, Nicaragua, where we are living for three months; the Zaragoza Church is enroute.  So the old man’s appearance is sudden and surprising.  During our first pass, I glance surreptitiously at him.  A small bundle of belongings is heaped on the seat of his wheelchair.  Loose plastic grocery bags containing mysterious items are scattered around him.  It is morning, no shade on this side of the church.  He wears no hat although the sun beats mercilessly down on him.  Coupled with 30 C (90 F) plus degree temperatures, he has to feel uncomfortable even if he is Nicaraguan. As a visitor I know I suffer from the heat, sweating profusely while seated on a bench in the shade.

     Surely, we think when we first see him, the good people of the church will help him.  Maybe that’s why he’s chosen this spot to rest his tired and crippled body.
     But no.  We are alarmed he is still there the next day, and the next day, and the next….each time we pass, he is there.  We also notice scraps of food around him.  We deduce people feed him, including us.  Each time we return from grocery shopping at the supermercado, we drop something off at his feet if he is dozing or in his lap if he is awake.  First, it is a mandarino, then a boxed fruit drink, and soon a small snack of fruit, chicken pastry, and a drink.  Initially he says nothing, eyes constantly closed as if waiting for death. Later he appears more alert and we hear gracias, once I heard ‘thank you’. 
     Six weeks later and the old man is still here.  His sidewalk space outside the church is expanding.  Someone has dropped off a large cardboard box, perhaps for shelter from the sun.  Numerous pieces of food lie sprinkled around him.  His position is the same since he parked himself there. 
     We figure someone must look after his personal needs.  Although my husband says he smells a strong odour of urine in his vicinity, we note the old man’s gray hair and matching beard is cut and groomed.  His face is weathered, sun damaged.

     Several weeks later, as we amble along our usual route to centro, we notice a blue pick-up truck parked at the curb beside the old man.  Two strong-looking men are standing in the back of the truck, having a discussion.  Their body language speaks of hesitancy: one has his elbow bent, arm crooked, hand resting on the side of his face, a pose of reflection. We alter our route, turn right instead of heading straight, decide not to pass by the church this time. 
     Earlier we had asked about the old man with a neighbouring Nicaraguan, a friend fluent in English.  He says there are many people like the old man.  He says authorities want to place these people somewhere else, out of the line of vision of visitors.  City Fathers do not want tourists to see the visible poor who lie prostrate in door wells, unfortunates wasted by illegal drugs, civil war cast-offs from decades ago still suffering post traumatic stress disorders. These ugly sights are not for the tourist who comes to Nicaragua for a good time: sun, sea, volcano boarding, eco cloud forest trekking, all for much cheaper rates than neighbouring Costa Rica.

     I think of home and the destitute people I see in downtown Toronto, seeking shelter from the cold winter winds, lying on flattened cardboard pieces placed over sidewalk grates to catch whiffs of heat from subway lines racing below the streets.  Or indigenous people whose communities lack clean water and a clean environment, where young people see suicide as the only way out. Canada is a first world country; Nicaragua is third world.
     On our return to our casa from the supermercado, prepared to drop off his usual fare, we discover the old man’s wheelchair has disappeared; the sidewalk is clean, no sign of habitation or garbage. No odours. Out of sight, out of mind. 
     An unwanted liability, the old man is gone.

     Ever wonder what becomes of those ugly yellow Bluebird school buses when they’re almost junk?  They start a new life in Central America.
     The one I’m on now is in León, Nicaragua.  I’m squished into a seat---at least I have one on this over crowded hot bus---next to the window and there’s an ominous looking bug on the side panel near me just out of my reach.  It’s actually closer to the pony-tailed young woman with bare arms in the seat ahead of me.  She is engaged in a lively conversation otherwise I would warn her about the nasty bug despite my limited Spanish skills.
This bug has a black hard shell about the size of my little fingernail with long waving feelers.  It faces me.  Right now it’s stationary.

     There is too much activity and noise on this bus…and we haven’t left the depot yet.  A large middle-aged woman from the market is pushing along the crowded aisle hawking tajadas, a favourite Nica snack of fried plantains served in a plastic bag with two helpings of coleslaw salad (carried separately in a swinging pail) topped with a splash of some mysterious sauce.  The woman’s eye makeup is impeccable but over the top: turquoise eyelids with a whitish blend beneath her carefully pencilled eyebrows. Shimmering tomato red lips draw attention to her double chins.  The colour of her lips matches her long fake fingernails. Tawny coloured hair, black at the roots, is pulled back severely into a pony tail accenting her large golden hoop earrings.  She is a study in extremes as she sways back and forth, up and down the crowded aisle, hawking her food.
     Her loud appearance is a magnet, forcing me to take my eye off the bug for awhile. Suddenly my peripheral vision senses movement. I catch the bug’s slow silent creep towards me along the side panel.

     As the bus pulls out, the driver switches an old Bruce Lee film on a front video screen adding to the general confusion.  Nica buses have a copiloto, a helper who performs duties that free the driver to do his job.  The copiloto collects fares, helps passengers off and on the bus, urges them to move on back.   
     The bug, still there, unsettles me.  I decide to flick it away but miss; it skitters closer to the bare arm of the girl ahead of me.  Unfortunately, it still faces me ignoring the luscious looking flesh only a bite away.                
     Now careening along the highway, I decide it’s time to warn the pony-tailed girl about the bug.  As I’m about to tap her shoulder she pulls a canister from her purse, sprays her hair and unwittingly sprays the ominous looking bug that disappears where…..near my bare leg?

     The bug is still on my mind the next morning.  Too many insectos in these tropical countries.  Suddenly my husband beckons me to the baño.  “Spider,” he whispers, “big one.”  He points to an open drawer.  I gasp. Tarantula!  Two of its black hairy legs hang over the edge, poised as if ready to jump.
     Oh, what to do?  What to do?  Although a whiz at defeating bugs, he has no idea how to tackle a 10 cm tarantula. Is it fast? Poisonous? Aggressive?  We run around in circles before my husband decides to seek an expert: he runs for help from a Nica neighbour.  While he’s gone only a short while, I nervously eye the tarantula in case it decides to scurry somewhere. Like towards ME.
     My husband returns pronto with our Nica neighbour.  He sees the tarantula. No translation necessary.  Reaching into his back pocket, he brings out a tape measure.  While we both watch intently, he extends the tape measure to a desired length.  Deftly, quickly, he places the end of the tape under the tarantula, flips it out of the drawer, quickly steps on it.  We stare at the remains of the large hairy intruder.  I think about all the dark hiding places in our rented casa.
     And to think I was worried about the bug on the bus.

     He appeared suddenly on my left.
     Because we arrived in León, Nicaragua, late last night we were tired so his presence did not register immediately when we left our BnB with glazed eyes. We came to spend three months here to avoid the cold Canadian winter… to experience life in a third world country, the second poorest in the western hemisphere after Haiti…to leave our comfort zone, test ourselves in a foreign land.  This was not our first visit to Nicaragua so we knew all about her warm and hospitable people.
     In the morning, following a hard travel day and a restless sleep, we had just stepped from our accommodation onto the uneven, narrow sidewalk, turning to our right. Out of thin air, he appeared on my left.  A boy about 8 with large brown eyes.  He said nothing.  But he raised his hand, waving fingers frantically in his mouth.  I stopped. Stared. Then he vanished.

     It took only seconds for my mind to process his gesture.  The child was hungry.  He was asking for food.  In a vain effort at redemption, I looked around for him.  He was gone.
     Trying to forget his haunting look, I continued on with our plan.  Our first task in this culturally-rich university city was to find a permanent address.  We hoped to rent a casa near centro where we could walk to the cathedrals, parks, mercados and places frequented by locals.  Of course, being North American, we wanted internet, a fully equipped kitchen, a clean, modern bathroom and any other amenities to make our life comfortable.
     While we looked, though, I kept thinking, but what about that little boy? Where does he live?
     As we searched, using BnB guest/host contacts, walking around looking for signs to rent (se alquilar), frequenting tourist bureaus, visiting real estate offices, scouring the internet, we began to lose hope.  Small casas we saw were too far away or else bare, dirty and dark shanties, begging for TLC, not in great neighbourhoods.

     During this time of reconnaissance, we discovered other facets of life in León.  Early mornings in our Paz de Luna (Peace of the Moon) BnB, brought squawks from green parrots as flocks visited the inner lush courtyard with its running water fountain and plethora of tropical plants: birds of paradise, aloe, hibiscus, flowering cacti, sour orange trees; in the dining room we lingered over breakfast and the background music of legendary crooners singing old American standards like How Insensitive.  We listened to street noises: the enchanting clip clop of small horses’ hooves pulling old two wheeled flat wagons along narrow, cobblestone streets. The sound sent the mind tumbling to a more seductive past.
      Lest I paint too romantic a picture, please be aware of the opposites.  We cannot flush tissue down toilets in this city: Please do not put any paper in the toilet to avoid plumbing problems. Used tissues must be deposited in the garbage bin located beside the toilet.  Although León is relatively clean, watch you don’t break a leg on the many sidewalk potholes and chunks of broken pavement.  Pockets of poverty---a weary elderly shoeshine man with bent back hoisting his trade tools across the central square; an old, barefoot woman peddling postcards; a younger one, tired already, extending her hand---exist alongside scores of university students sitting on the cathedral’s base scanning their cell phones.

     I watch a group of four boys, 8-10 years, jostle along the street with slingshots ready, their eyes on a moving target along the side of a building.  The shortest one takes aim on the run, fires, and whoops with joy.  The friends run together to the wall where the hunter picks up and proudly displays his fallen prey, a lifeless iguana.
     As we retrace the steps to our BnB, I spy a long, lean, and gaunt older gentleman dressed in black, trailing closely behind us. His hair is sparse and grey. His bearing is regal.  We enter Paz de Luna; he automatically follows.  Startled, I turn to investigate before we disappear to our room.  I see him approach the desk, motioning in his mouth with waving fingers.  This time I signal to the staff, we will pay for his food.  She smiles, nods, shows him to a table. 
     The frail stranger, sitting with back straight, is staring out the window at the clear, cloudless day, waiting patiently for food. He does not see us.
     That’s when I recall the painted message on the wall of a local café, Pan y Paz (Bread and Peace)… the world would be a better place if everyone had bread and peace everyday.
     Which reminds me again of the street boy with the brown eyes.  I saw him for only a second but he will haunt me for a lifetime.

     He lumbered to our front door in his red velvet, white fur-trimmed suit and coal black boots, shaking his jingling bells, stroking his full beard and shouting ‘ho ho ho’.     
     Our three young sons, who lived in the enchanted land of imagination, knew the real Santa was here, just as in previous years.             
      The real Santa was our rotund neighbour who lived behind us, a former professional football linebacker, easily weighing 280-300 lbs.  No way did our boys equate this magnificent Santa with the nearby mortal who shoveled his driveway like the rest of us.            
     “Santa’s here!” they screamed when they heard the doorbell ring.  Although they saw Santa in malls, parades, at school and Sunday School parties---Santa was everywhere it seemed---this Santa, the one coming to their home, was the real Santa. Each year he reminded them his reindeer were in the North Pole stables, resting and munching as they got ready for the long night flying across the world pulling his toy-packed sleigh.

    And only a real Santa knew their real behaviour.  We stifled snickers when Santa gently chided our eldest: “so, you threw sand at your brother this summer” or “good thing my elf watched you pick up the mess” or “didn’t you share ice cream on the swings…?”  He knew way too much real stuff.
     The faces of our three sons, totally enraptured by this giant of a gentle man, are forever images.  Tucked away in our messy memory albums are photos of each boy, sitting comfortably on the knee and in the arms of this marvelous man, chatting to him about their hopes and dreams while my husband and I frantically wrote down their wish lists.  Many times we were about to purchase something we thought they wanted for Christmas only to discover they told Santa something else.
     Over the years, as the boys grew, our neighbourhood changed and after the boys left home, we resettled elsewhere in Canada. 
     Although we occasionally returned to our hometown to visit old friends, we never found time to look up Santa.  On one occasion, though, we made a point of calling him.  We wanted to remind and thank him for the pleasure he brought our family when the boys were young.   On the phone, he invited us over immediately.  His voice sounded the same as 25 years ago: larger than life, warm and welcoming.

     “Come in!” he boomed when we rang the doorbell to his small bungalow.
     We did not expect what greeted our eyes.  I only hope the shock on our faces did not register.
     Our Santa was crippled.
     Although always large, he was even more so now: an obese, old bald man spilling over the stuffed lazy boy chair in which he was parked.  Anchored in a cluttered living room, he sat within reach of a telephone and TV remote control. A small table by his side held a pitcher of water, an empty glass, and a plate with some food scraps.  He looked as if he had not moved for days.
     “My knees,” he explained.  “Ruined them playing football.  Then came arthritis.  Now I can’t move without leaning on a cane or a walker.  Too heavy.”  He laughed and we caught a glimpse of merriment from long ago. “When Bonnie died and Darryl moved away, life came to a standstill.”  Bonnie was Mrs. Claus of course and Darryl their only son.  “I have a housekeeper---comes each morning to make sure I’ve enough food for the day.  Helps me dress then comes back in the evening and helps me undress.  Hardly move from this spot.”  He shared his tale matter-of-factly, no self-pity.
     We found it difficult he was incapacitated....and forgotten.  This unselfish man gave so much delight to his neighbourhood and community.  As the real Santa he brought joy to numerous Christmas parties and our neighbourhood; excited children across the city watched the local cable station each December hoping he would read their letters of dreams.  His annual TV appearance guaranteed the largest response of any community television program.
     Yesterday’s Santa may no longer exist as he once was but to our family he will always remain real.

     “I am afraid you’ve been tricked.”
     Gulp.  Silence.  Sick-to-our-stomach feeling.  Hard-earned money gone.  Thieves. Bandits.  Scumbags.
     All these epithets and more spring to mind as we listen dumbfounded to our hostess.  She continues.... “we deal with this company and we know you never send money. (We did.) Use only credit cards (we transferred cash).  Never share your personal email (we did)...Use the company as a filter. A go-between (we didn’t).”  We were cleverly led astray by a bogus look-a-like.
     Here we are in Lisbon looking for a rental apartment for one month and now we are certain we’re scammed.  The advertised apartment on-line did look almost too good to be true.  It was.
     All we want to do now is leave, return to the safety and security of our Canadian home.

     But like the proverbial possé galloping in to save the day, we think (nay, hope) we may thwart the attack because of a five hour time difference and banking rules. Panic-stricken, we contact our son in the financial business in Canada who manages to unravel the almost-done deal.  Now we can breathe again.  Now we can explore Portugal affordably---and we can eat!
     The apartment we eventually rent, half way up a narrow steep hill on the first floor of a traditional stone building, sits in a working class/student section of the city.  Laundry hangs from clothes lines strung out back and front.  This is November; Lisbon is sometimes warm enough for only a tee-shirt, sometimes not.  Inclement weather brings forth residents who scurry up and down vertical cobblestone streets with warm scarves wrapped around necks, umbrellas clutched in case threatening clouds burst. In contrast, colourful graffiti and weird artful figures swirl and sweep like wallpaper across nearby exterior walls.
     Climbing the dozen worn-in-the-middle wooden steps to a shabby landing leading to our apartamento dark door, we open the door to....a red and white IKEA décor!           
     What a shock....our DIY furniture in this small space does not match or complement this centuries-old neighbourhood.   We cannot complain, though, as there are modern amenities, including internet.  But there is an offensive sewage odour coming from the kitchen sink we never resolve.

     Living in this local community, our learning curve escalates. Especially at the supermercado.  Few fish filets (North Americans don’t like picking out bones) but plenty of dried salt bacalhau (cod) and other whole fresh peixe with glassy eyes, octopi with suction tentacles, new fruits to taste, like persimmon. What is this squat orange fruit that looks like a tomato?  Brimming with nutrition is good to know but when and how to eat it?  Shopping for groceries requires the eye of a detective.  How do you unlock and package fresh buns and famous Portuguese bread from their glass cages?  Where are the eggs? (hint: not in the cooler). 

     Out and about: what metro line takes us to centro or the train station? With winding, steep hills of cobblestones, when does one street end and another begin?  Did the tourist office mean turn right here or there?  We backtrack numerous times and start again using familiar benchmarks (yes, McDonald’s! although who would eat there in this land of delicious pastries and inexpensive wine?)  All this plus the challenge of language and currency.
     After many mistakes, wrong turns, curses and blame, we begin to learn the intricacies of this amazing city reputedly the second oldest in Europe after Athens. Vibrant, friendly, so wonderfully European, Lisbon buzzes with heavenly pastelerias, excellent vinho do porto, and delicious local cuisine like seafood at Ramiro’s across the square from our apartamento.

     First heard about this famous restaurant from our host rental agent who sang its praises.  As fans of Anthony Bourdain’s gastronomic TV show, we also learn Bourdain dined at Ramiro’s during a taping in Lisbon. A must for us then. When first exploring our neighbourhood, we noticed patrons lined up outside the door and around the block of this three storey seafood cervejaria. Time to taste the excitement!  As North Americans, our first shock: no reservations.  Our second shock: on arrival you receive a random number; when it appears on the outside screen, your table is ready.  We randomly wait among growing crowds and meet a visiting American couple (he, a well-known baseball writer/statistician).  This is the third night his wife has staked out Ramiro’s hoping to get in. Suddenly the screen flashes our random numbers (ours is 1060...their’s 1645), one after the other, and we are ushered into the brightly lit restaurant, second floor.  Coincidentally we sit at the same table and devour sizzling shrimp laced liberally with garlic, served with mounds of garlic (again!) bread.

A taxi driver points out his friend’s marisqueria (seafood restaurant) in our neighbourhood.  We eat there and are treated to a local version of fado, bluesy music with centuries-old origins.  Patrons in their fifties---one in his nineties---sing of broken hearts and lost loves with gusto and melancholy.  These dining performers welcome us with warmth and curiosity.

     From the internet we learn fascinating tidbits of information about our adopted city:
       click here
     This is only the beginning of our five week stay in Portugal.
     And to think we almost gave up and flew home.

     It is raining cats and dogs; there’s a wicked wind, too.  Our umbrellas whip inside out.  My feet slosh around in my soaked canvas running shoes.  Must keep my eye on the cobblestones for surprise rises and dips that could cause a stumble or tumble.
     “We turn right, don’t we?” I yell above the wind and rain to my husband who is pushing ahead uphill. We must have climbed at least six of this city’s legendary seven hills over the past hour.
     “No.  We keep on this street!” he yells back over his shoulder so I cannot really be sure he said what he said.
     Eventually we huddle under two dripping umbrellas, trying to untangle a wet paper map that threatens to blow away.  “I think we’re lost,” he says.
     When we read in a guide book that the best way to get to know Lisbon is to get lost, we begrudgingly agree.
    Welcome (bem vinda) to Lisbon, Portugal, whose historical centre boasts a thousand wrought iron balconies, narrow cobblestone streets and steep hills that take the place of gym cardio equipment.  We are exhausted and we’ve arrived only yesterday.

     Our adjustment begins in Lisbon’s airport when my husband seeks a phone booth for an SIM card to obtain a local number on our smartphones.  We are strangers in this massive structure and are tired and cranky from an overnight flight of pronounced turbulence.  At one point in his airport search, my better half misses a three step drop because his eyes are on papers he’s holding.  I see him from a short distance.  He wobbles off balance, catches himself, wobbles to the other side, half falls, recovers, and then dances like a drunken sailor before he rights himself.  
     I am laughing hysterically and I don’t know why. 
     It takes two days before we sort out the cellphone mess.
     Our next challenge is banking.  We can’t understand why the ATM allows only a withdrawal of 10 or 20 Euros.  Frustrated, we approach a banking attendant who explains in English: the cash is dispensed only in 10 or 20 euro denominations. 

     Finally, our guest house is lovely---very modern, very chic---with caring owners eager to help with our adjustment.  Only one problem.  At this very moment, landlords of the neighbouring attached building are renovating their property.  From early morning until dusk, we hear the loud banging, drilling, scraping, hammering that comes with construction.
     Around the corner, we discover a local Portuguese bistro with good wine---a fraction of the cost in Canada--- serving splendid meals of carne and marisco prepared in dozens of traditional ways.

     We travel because we like to.  We also know that landing in a foreign land forces us out of our comfort level.  Frustrating at first, it is this challenge that keeps us coming back for more.
     So welcome to Lisbon....more to come.

Map of Portugal

      “No.  No bear sightings for at least 3 weeks.”  “Naw, haven’t seen nary a one for a few weeks now.”  “Too late in the season.  Ya won’t see bears now.”
      The desk clerk, game warden, park ranger: all agree the bears have moved on.
      With two young grandsons, we drove north to Stewart, BC/Hyder, Alaska, planning to watch grizzly and/or black bears chow down on salmon as the adult fish fight their way upstream to spawn and die. We hope to see one of these magnificent animals from the bear viewing platform built for this purpose in Hyder.
      But then I read some safety measures on what to do if in contact with bears and was left with the distinct impression it is best not to meet one!  Especially with vulnerable boys, ages 8 and 10.

      Here’s the advice for a black bear encounter:  If the attack escalates and a black bear physically contacts you, fight back with anything available to you.  Black bears tend to be more timid than grizzlies and fighting back may scare off the bear.  If a bear is stalking you, then you are in a predatory situation and fighting back is your only option.  This also applies to any attack at night....”
      Gulp. 
      Advice when encountering a grizzly is less comforting: If you believe the bear is stalking you, fight back with everything you have....Playing dead in a daytime grizzly encounter tends to reduce the level of injury sustained by most attack victims.  Many grizzly attacks are defensive in nature and playing dead may show the bear you are not a threat.  Keep your backpack on as it provides added protection.  Best position is to lie on your side in the fetal position.  Bring your legs up to your chest and bury your head into your legs.  Wrap your arms around your legs and hold on tight.  Do not play dead until the last moment.  Staying on your feet may allow you to dodge an attack.
      Double gulp.  So I’m actually relieved no-one has seen a bear for a few weeks.

      This area we are now in: Stewart BC/Hyder, Alaska, is an odd border landmark. Hyder, population 87, is Alaska’s easternmost town, a tiny community surrounded by lofty, glacier-covered peaks at the corner of the Alaska Panhandle, according to Condé Nast Traveler magazine*. The town boomed in the early 20th century with the nearby discovery of gold and silver but is now so small residents call it “Alaska’s friendliest ghost town.”  The bear viewing platform lies a few km out of town.
      Just ten minutes away is neighbouring Stewart, B.C., our destination for the night.  It feels weird to cross an unarmed, unmanned U.S. border, as we did, from Canada to the U.S.  On the return trip we---like all travellers---must report to Canadian Customs and Immigration.  When we inquire as to why no ‘official’ U.S. border patrol, the reply is: “there’s no place to go after Hyder....only mountains.”
      The town of Stewart in B.C. is also surrounded by stunning glacial terrain.  In early 1898, the lure of gold brought prospectors and miners to the area.  By 1918, Stewart was home to a thriving mining community of 10,000.  Population today is about 500 scattered among the remains of century old homes, buildings, gravel roads, and historic relics. 
      In this outpost, often cut off from civilization in the winter due to avalanche activity, we bed down in 20th century accommodation at Ripley Creek Inn, feeling like pioneers of the wild northwest.

        But what about the bears?
     Well, we cross the unmanned US border into Hyder, Alaska, and find the bear viewing platform overlooking a shallow section of the crystal clear Fish River.  A few dozen spectators, some there all day, are patiently waiting for a bear sighting.  They all shake their heads when we ask, “any bears?”  Our two young fellas watch schools of salmon struggling upstream for awhile and then are bored.  We decide it’s time to leave. 
      Suddenly a woman visitor points, whispers excitedly, “BEAR!”
     Sure enough, an adult black bear ambles out of the bush across from the viewing platform in full view of onlookers and into the river.  He gingerly places his paw in the cool running river as scores of jumping salmon surround him.  With a quick swat, he grabs one, splashes back to shore, tears at the fish, stuffing flesh into his mouth.

   Wide eyes. Silence. Cameras click.       
   Bear’s only focus is salmon.  Twice more, under watchful eyes, he wanders into the water to swipe another salmon meal.
      We are in awe.  Delighted.  Privileged.  Humbled.
      Thank you, Mother Nature, for this special magical experience.
      *Condé Nast writer Ken Jennings

           Smithers to Stewart, BC

           
    So here we are in Rome, standing like obvious tourists on a street corner, map open---concentrating---just ripe for the picking. 
    Our goal is to complete the self-guided tour of The Path of Illumination as laid out by author Dan Brown in his thriller book, Angels and Demons.  We are looking for the Santa Maria della Vittoria Church tucked away in a more remote area of Rome wherein lies a clue in one of its famous statues, Bernini’s Ecstasy of St. Teresa.         

    An expensive car rolls slowly by, pauses, then backs down the slope of this quiet neighbourhood until the driver sits directly opposite us.  The window slides down.
You are lost? Can I help with directions puhleeze?  He speaks English in thickly accented Italian.  Good looking.  Well-dressed.  Someone who might prove more interesting in a different scenario.
    Looking for a certain church, I reply.                                                            
    Show me the map lovely peeples.  Where you from?  Americano?
    No.  Canadian.
    He whoops with delight.  My wife she works at the Canadian Embassy!  On my way to see her now.  Before gaz goze empty.  Almos no gaz...sooo embarrassing!  A beaming smile flits across his face.  Where you from in your beeyoutiful country...Vancouver?
    No. Toronto.
    Shouldn’t seasoned travellers catch on at this point?  Alas, we are too absorbed in finding this out of the way church, a landmark clue in Brown’s best-seller.  Besides, this guy looks like any harassed businessman who simply forgot his gas tank is almost dry.

    Talking rapidly, like any bona fide Italian, he idles his car close to the curb and rubs strong fingers through his thick black hair.      
    You want I should help you?
    No, thank you, we reply politely, firmly.
    But maybeez you can help me?
    In an instant he reaches behind him and pulls out two jackets from the back seat.  He begins his fast sales pitch and we are too absorbed, too gullible to read the obvious signs.
     These jackets are ver-r-y expensive, made of the finest Italian leather. I hate to part  
with them but.... you look like lovely peeples and you are Canadian like my wife.  Me and my wife, we go to Toronto lots...we take you to dinner there? Yes?
     He churns out another charming smile, then turns earnest, his voice low, conspiratorial.  The cost of these jackets...he holds them close as if they are his children.  He sighs loudly.... I hate to let them go but you are such special Canadian peeples..  Breathing in their fragrance as if breathing in the bouquet of an expensive wine, he piously hands us his exquisite jackets.

     Stunned at this turn of events, we question nothing and, without a second thought, hand over many euros to fill his supposedly near empty gas tank, even asking (gasp!) if the amount is enough!    
    The transaction has taken mere minutes.
    Grazie! Grazie! See you in Toronto?!
    Whoosh! He takes off in a cloud of dust.  We stand there, look at each other, and only then are suspicious.    
    Still on the street corner, we carefully fold our map and, feeling a little sick and stupid, take time to study our fine jackets. They are nothing but phony synthetics and would disintegrate in the first rain.
    Humiliated at being such easy marks, we decide to ditch the evidence in the driveway of a nearby home hoping no-one notices.
    Burned, but more determined than ever, we forge on and finally find that elusive little church with the St. Teresa statue inside, left of the altar.
    And we never revealed this withering tale to anyone----until now.