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When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings. |
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Cleared for takeoff
My son and I had the good fortune to spend the Christmas break in Portugal. Admittedly, it was an unorthodox choice. December on the Iberian coast is not the ideal time to sun your pale, winter-bound hide. Even in these southern latitudes a day at the beach is not complete without an ice chipper and the threat of hypothermia. Only the most ardent beachcombers or the criminally insane would consider taking a dip in the angry Atlantic at that time of the year.
But this was no ordinary vacation. It wasn’t about frying in the semitropical heat. It was instead, a voyage of personal discovery. I would be returning to the land of my forebears to explore my roots. I had aunts, uncles, and cousins I hadn’t seen in decades. In fact, a whole generation of Pires’ had sprouted since I last hopped the pond. Obviously, talking about ourselves isn’t the only thing my family does well. Above all, I was fulfilling a promise I had made to my dad. Before he passed away, he asked me to deliver some of his personal effects to his brother and sister in Portugal. What better time than Christmas.
The trip would be especially enlightening for my son. In his fifteen years he had left the province of Ontario exactly once, on a three-day school trip to Montreal. Hardly a world tour. Since my parents were the only ones to emigrate, we could hold the Canadian leg of the Pires family reunion in a phone booth. So the kid was pumped at the prospect of spending Christmas surrounded by people that shared his last name. But there was still the potentially thorny issue of communication. He spoke no Portuguese and I wasn’t much better. The situation was manageable as long as we stuck to the confines of Portuguese 101. “Good night.” “Good morning.” “I wish to speak to my lawyer.” Beyond that we were at the mercy of my cousins to translate. And this is where it could all go off the rails. Many a trans-Atlantic family feud has begun over an unfortunate malapropism. In a country where wine flows like water, a well-oiled translator could easily turn, “Thank you for this lovely dinner” into “Your mother-in-law is a gorilla”.
We needn’t have worried. Apparently we weren’t the only ones looking forward to our trip. A few weeks before our departure, several of the kids messaged their “Canadian cousin” on Facebook in perfect English. Why bother bringing a dictionary? Introductions were made. Parties were planned. And I had a submission for the good people at “Jeopardy”. Answer: The native English speaker. Question: What is the laziest creature on Earth?
Unfortunately my wife was unable to join us. She had not amassed the required vacation time. This came as a mixed blessing. Although saddened she couldn’t accompany her boys on their pilgrimage, there was a main bathroom in dire need of some TLC. And no matter how adept your hand at redecorating, it is impossible to churn out the required masterpiece with a couple of jocks littering your workspace with their sweaty long johns. So with mixed emotions she gave royal assent to the voyage.
It had been years since I last had to pack for a trip overseas. I use the term loosely. I always thought “pack” was Latin for “roll all your belongings into a giant ball, stuff it into a suitcase, and have someone sit on it while you zip it up.” That was before I met my wife. Her organization skills are legendary. Had she overseen the loading of the Ark, she could’ve added a couple of jumbo jets and the entire cast of “Riverdance” and still have had enough room for a gymnasium and a movie theatre. (Author’s note: I am by no means implying she was actually around when Noah built the Ark). So I left this logistical nightmare in her capable hands.
The bulk of the payload was taken up by gifts for the kids. Since we would also be cultural emissaries, the theme would be Canada and all things Canadian. There were hats, mitts, and scarves for the girls; mini sticks with the logos of the Canadian NHL teams for the boy; a jigsaw puzzle of the Canadian flag with each piece depicting a scene from Canadian life; a container of maple-infused shortbread cookies which almost didn’t make it into the suitcase; and other assorted Canadiana. Throw in two bottles of Niagara wine and I would need a shipping container to get this stuff over there. My wife made it all disappear along with a week’s worth of clothes and she still made the weight limit.
When she had completed her optical illusion we hauled the suitcases downstairs and stacked them by the front door. I could now give my undivided attention to a nagging little detail I had been ignoring as if it were a “check engine” light: I was about to get on an airplane! Once upon a time I embraced hurtling across the stratosphere in a metal tube with nothing but the deep, blue sea below me, as an adventure. Twenty-five years later and scant hours from being launched into inner space I realized I hadn’t updated my will. I asked my son if he was excited about the prospect of air travel. He shrugged with teenaged sang-froid. “I’ll just sleep through it.” As I felt my palms start to sweat, I couldn’t help wonder if Gravol came in barbeque flavour. |