All right, I'm back from an amazing vacation in St John's, Newfoundland. Seriously, one of the friendliest places on earth. Saw some whales, ate some fish and chips, and walked roughly thirty seven hundred miles. As awesome as the trip was, I came to realize soemthing about flying: I am the absolutely worst version of myself when I fly. All the stupid little things people do that I can usually shrug off drive me MENTAL when I'm strapped into a cramped, leatherette chair at 30'000 feet. If I'm ever going to commit murder, I'll be doing on the plane. Example: on the way back to Toronto we had a stop over in Moncton. This family (mom, dad and two kids) get on. The mom and the kids sit on one side of the plane, the dad sits a few rows up and on the opposite side of the plane (and directly behind me). They talked back and forth to each other the WHOLE way. Apparently the dad thought the flight needed uninformed play-by-play commentating (maybe it was the lack of inflight movie or even radio?): "Hey I think that's the St Laurence... Yeah, I think that's it. St. Laurence, maybe?" Golly, THAT was far more entertaining than the book I was trying to read. Cretin.

I loved getting to go swimming with god-daughter, Delphine. If flying turns me into the dread bastard-Mike, few things make me more benevolent and happy Mike than Del. The idea of swimming was just so exciting to her. Even though it was a little cool and her little lip was shivering, she couldn't contain her excitement at being in the water!

One of the best things we did in St. John's was the Haunted Hike. If any of you are heading to the Rock, I strongly suggest you go along for this merry, morbid and macabre tour.

I'll post more about my trip in the days to come. Til then:

Listening to: Milestones, Miles Davis.