It had been a while since I fell absolutely head over heels for a city — since the first time I went to Oslo, I think!
I’ve made quite the habit of hopping on a red-eye flight out to Europe. Luckily, I have my flight drug situation teed up like a pro, and can reset my own body like an alarm clock. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work as well when I’m trying to get into the office by 9am, but hey, the vacation adrenaline rush is real.
Lisbon staked the beginning of what would be a mostly solo, two-week adventure in Portugal and Spain. Nickerson joined me for the first few days, and then on my 31st birthday, I sent him off to the states, and continued on my Spanish quest.
Having grown up in Los Angeles, and being one of those people whose parents rarely understood the need to leave California, I could count on one hand the number of times I had witnessed snow falling. That is, until I moved to DC, where I heard it “rarely snowed,” and in my first winter, we got about 48 inches of snow.
There’s no better introduction to snow than one of those rare, city-shut-down, break out your skis blizzards. And since I haven’t seen snow quite like that first East Coast winter, getting to Montreal just before a blizzard gave me that magical winter wonderland that I had been craving for the last nine years.
My travel partner, hailing from Montana by way of Spokane, was less entertained – but nevertheless, entertained me by trekking through Vieux Montreal amidst a white out.