“Anything to See and Do Around Here?” – Asked From the Place They Already Drove To

I saw another beauty in a local Facebook group recently.

A couple posted from Chutes Provincial Park asking: “Anything to see and do in the area?”

Now, under normal circumstances, that’s a fair question. If you’re planning a trip somewhere six months from now, by all means ask locals for hidden gems, good diners, scenic lookouts, or places tourists usually miss.

But these people were already there. Not “thinking about going there.” Not “heading there next month.” They were already there, telling everyone they had just arrived. 

At that point, I have questions of my own.

Did you not notice the giant rapids signs? The hiking trail maps? The fishing access signs? The scenic route signs? The ice cream shops? The chip trucks? The gift stores selling moose magnets and fudge every three miles?

How do you drive into a provincial park and then immediately ask the internet what exists around you?

Part of the fun of road trips used to be discovering things yourself. You’d pull over because a sign said “Scenic Lookout.” You’d stop at a rustic diner because the parking lot was full of pickup trucks. You’d wander into a small-town museum because it looked interesting – or gloriously terrible.

Sometimes you found hidden gems. Sometimes you found a taxidermy display that hasn’t been updated since 1987.

That was the adventure. Now it feels like some people refuse to experience anything unless it’s pre-approved by strangers online.

You can almost picture them sitting at the campsite: “Okay, we’ve arrived.” “Great. What do we do now?” “I don’t know. Ask Facebook.”

Meanwhile, nature and 94 things to do are right near them.   

And the replies are always predictable.

“Definitely check out the falls.” Yes. The falls are located in the park they are currently camping in.

“Lots of nice hiking trails.” You don’t say. At a provincial park in Northern Ontario?

Then come the ultra-detailed local responses: “You should drive 42 minutes northeast to a tiny bakery that closes at 4:13 p.m. on alternate Saturdays but only if Linda’s working because the cinnamon buns aren’t the same when Trevor makes them.”

Local Facebook groups are incredible for this stuff.

To be fair, I understand wanting recommendations. Hidden beaches, several lakes no one’s ever fished in, little-known restaurants, scenic back roads – that’s useful information. Locals often know the best stuff.

But there’s something mildly depressing about people arriving in beautiful places and immediately looking down at their phones rather than looking around them.

You’re camping beside forests, rivers, cliffs, waterfalls, wildlife, and plenty of fresh air. Maybe start there. Walk around. Get lost for an hour. Take the road with the interesting sign.

Worst case? You waste an hour and end up back at camp with a story.

Best case? You discover something memorable without needing a committee of Facebook strangers to authorize the experience first.

And honestly, if you can’t find anything to do at a provincial park after driving past 73 tourism signs to get there, I’m not sure the internet can save you.

I Don’t Miss Movie Theaters Nearly as Much as I Thought I Would

I was thinking the other day that I haven’t been inside a movie theater in years.

Not months. Years. And the surprising thing is that I don’t miss it.

Now, before anyone in the cinema business – which I often write about on the technology side faints, let me clarify. I still love movies and the technology behind them. I still appreciate great storytelling, great acting, and great cinematography. Through my work, I’ve spent years writing about projection technology, cinema innovation, and the efforts companies make to create better viewing experiences.

What I don’t miss is the audience. Several years ago, the movie-going experience became less about watching a film and more about enduring everyone else who paid to be there.

I know that sounds grumpy. Maybe it is. But hear me out.

Imagine inviting a group of strangers into your living room to watch a movie. One person arrives late. Another spends two hours rustling bags, and another spends the entire movie smacking and slurping on food and beverages. Someone else checks their phone every 10 minutes and receives three calls – none on vibrate, but the full-blown ring.  Another kicks the back of your chair. Yet another provides a running commentary as if they’ve been hired by the director to explain the plot.

You’d probably never invite them back. Yet put those same people inside a movie theater, and somehow we’re expected to accept it as part of the deal. 

The popcorn and nachos is usually what gets me.

I understand that theaters make much of their money from concessions. That’s the business model. But there are times when it feels like half the audience is participating in a competitive eating contest.

The movie starts, and suddenly you’re surrounded by crunching, chewing, slurping, and the constant rustling of containers large enough to store winter road salt.

I realize I may be in the minority here. Many people associate movie popcorn with the theater experience, in the same way as baseball fans associate hot dogs with the ballpark. Fair enough.

But when I’m trying to follow a quiet scene and someone nearby is conducting a full-scale excavation of a popcorn bucket, it becomes a little difficult to appreciate the finer points of the performance.

Then there are the seat kickers. If I want someone repeatedly kicking the back of my seat, I’ll book an economy-class flight somewhere. At least on an airplane, I’ll end up in another city.

At the theater, all I get is a sore back and a diminished appreciation for humanity.

The strange thing is that home viewing has improved dramatically over the past decade. The televisions are bigger. The picture quality is incredible. Sound systems are better than ever. Streaming services make almost anything available with a few clicks.

Most importantly, I control the audience. If someone talks through the movie, it’s me.

If someone pauses it for a bathroom break, it’s me. If someone decides to eat an entire bucket of popcorn, well, that’s still me too, but at least I know who the culprit is.

What I’ve discovered is that I don’t really miss movie theaters. I miss what movie theaters used to represent. I miss sitting in a dark room and becoming completely immersed in a story and the feeling that everyone around me was there for the same reason. I miss audiences that seemed to understand the difference between watching a movie and participating in one.

I’m sure those audiences still exist. Maybe I’ve just become spoiled by the comfort and convenience of watching films at home. Or maybe, like concession food at sporting events, movie theaters have become another place where normal rules seem to disappear.

Whatever the reason, I’m not rushing back. I still love a good movie but I just prefer watching them without the soundtrack of popcorn, soda straws and somebody explaining the plot to their spouse halfway through the second act.

The Unexpected Kindness of Small Towns

One of the things you don’t expect when you move to a smaller town is how often someone simply offers to help. Not in a dramatic or “look how generous I am” kind of way. Just normal, everyday kindness that happens quietly and without much fuss. 

I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been out for a walk and someone driving by slows down, rolls down the window, and asks a simple question.

“Need a ride?”

There’s no pressure in it.

No awkwardness.

Just someone noticing that another person is walking along the road and thinking maybe they could use a lift. And what’s interesting is that it never feels strange or uncomfortable.

You develop a pretty good instinct for people. If something feels off, you know it immediately. But the people offering these rides aren’t sketchy or pushy. They’re just regular folks heading somewhere and willing to help someone else get there a little faster.

It’s a very small-town thing. In a big city, if someone pulled over and offered a ride to a stranger walking along the sidewalk, it would feel suspicious almost instantly. Everyone would be wondering what the catch was.

In a smaller town, it’s different because people simply look out for each other. Here is a good example. 

I needed to go into Bobcaygeon, about twenty miles away, to renew my health card, one of those errands that can become complicated if you don’t have a car available that day. In a city, you’d call a taxi or book an Uber and think nothing of it, but out here, that kind of trip can add up quickly. Instead, someone offered to drive me. Just like that. They had the day off and took time out of their day to do that. Of course, I gave them gas money. That’s only fair. But even then, you can tell they’re not doing it for the money. They’re doing it because that’s simply how people treat each other in smaller communities.

It probably saved me a hundred dollars in cab fares and a lot of unnecessary hassle. What stayed with me wasn’t the money. It was the attitude behind it.

The whole interaction was simple and matter-of-fact. No speeches about generosity. No expectation of anything in return. Just a neighbor helping another neighbor get something done.

You see the same kind of thing in other ways around here. Someone’s dock breaks loose after the ice goes out and drifts halfway across the lake, and suddenly half the shoreline is trying to figure out whose dock it is and how to get it back.

A pedal boat floats past someone’s cottage, and within minutes, there’s a photo posted online asking if anyone recognizes it. People laugh about it, and I have too, but underneath the humor, there’s actually something pretty nice going on.

People are paying attention and they care about what’s happening around them. And they’re willing to help when they can.

It’s easy to forget that kind of everyday kindness still exists when you’ve lived most of your life in larger places where everyone seems to be rushing somewhere else.

Small towns move at a different pace and people notice things.

They stop to talk and offer rides. And sometimes those small gestures tell you more about a place than anything else. You come to realize that what might look ordinary to the people who live there is actually something very special.

The Long Goodbye at the Door

Social gatherings have a moment when a guest decides it’s time to leave and it usually starts with, “Well, I should get going.”

In theory, that sentence means you’re about to leave. In reality, it often means the evening has entered a completely new phase: the long goodbye at the door. You stand up, thank the host for a nice evening, gather your coat, and say a few quick goodbyes around the room. Everything seems to be moving efficiently toward the exit.

But the moment you reach the front door, time suddenly slows down.

Someone says, “Oh, before you go…” Damn it. I almost made it out the door without any fuss.

Another person comes over for one last hug. Someone else remembers something they forgot to mention earlier in the evening. And just like that, the simple act of leaving turns into another twenty minutes of conversation. The doorway becomes its own little gathering – or prison cell. 

There’s always the person who says, “Say hi to so-and-so for me,” referring to someone who wasn’t there that night. You nod politely and promise you will, even though you’re already halfway into your coat and mentally calculating how long it’s going to take to get home. You also probably haven’t seen or spoken to that person in eight months. 

Then the food containers appear.

“Wait! Before you go, take some stroganoff home.” Or shepherd’s pie. Or leftover lasagna. Or something else that was served earlier in the evening. And the host begins carefully explaining what’s in it.

“It has carrots, onions, and a bit of thyme.”

You feel like saying, “Yes, I know. We just had it for dinner.”

But you smile and accept the container anyway, because refusing it would feel rude, and this whole ritual is built on politeness. Just when you think the moment is finally wrapping up and you can escape the doorway prison, someone remembers they have to run to the bathroom. Or someone else suddenly decides it’s time for one more round of hugs. And that’s when the hug count begins to climb.

One hug. Then another. Then someone else joins the goodbye line. At some point you start to lose track of how many times you’ve said goodbye to the same people in the last twenty minutes. It becomes a kind of social echo.

“Good night!”

“Drive safe!”

“Text me when you get home!”

“Oh, wait, before you go…”

The funny thing is that none of this is annoying in a serious way. It’s actually a sign that people enjoyed spending time together and liked your company. Nobody rushes you out the door because nobody really wants the evening to end.

But there is always a moment – usually around the twenty-minute mark – when a small thought begins to form in your mind.

Can I just leave already? It’s starting to rain.

You’re standing there with your coat half on, keys in your hand, holding a container of leftovers while another conversation starts up about something that probably should have been mentioned two hours earlier.

Eventually, though, the moment finally arrives. You step outside as the door closes behind you. And suddenly everything is quiet. 

The car is waiting. The night air feels cool and pleasant. The long goodbye has finally run its course. You sit in the driver’s seat for a moment and laugh to yourself, because it happens almost every time. Leaving a gathering is rarely a single moment. It’s more like a process. You say you’re going, start leaving – and you keep leaving. 

The funny thing about the long goodbye is that it happens so often because people are being kind.

No one is trying to trap you at the door. Quite the opposite. They’re offering leftovers, giving hugs, telling you to drive safely, and sending greetings to people who weren’t even there that night. All of it comes from a good place.

And I appreciate that.

At the same time, there’s another feeling that sometimes starts building quietly in the background. It’s that little internal voice that says, Okay… it’s really time to go now.

It’s not impatience exactly. It’s more like a kind of social restlessness. Once the decision to leave has been made, your brain has already shifted into departure mode. When the exit takes another twenty minutes, you can feel that “time to go” anxiety slowly building.

What’s interesting is that the same feeling shows up even when I’m by myself. I can be sitting in a coffee shop working on something, enjoying the quiet, when suddenly a similar thought appears out of nowhere.

Okay, that’s enough. Time to go.

Nothing is wrong. No one is bothering me. But the internal clock seems to click over to a different setting. Maybe that’s just part of how some people are wired. Once the mind decides it’s time to move on, whether it’s from a gathering, a restaurant, or even a quiet table in a café, it is time to move on.

Which is why those long goodbyes at the door can feel like a strange mix of emotions. You’re grateful people care. You’re glad you came. But at the same time, there’s a small voice in your head quietly repeating the same thought.

I really do need to leave now.

The Weight of a Negative Mind

Have you ever had a bad day or a rough week? I have. Who hasn’t? However, there’s a difference between having a bad day or week and living inside a bad mindset.

Life will always throw things at you. Bills show up at the worst time. Plans fall through. Expectations aren’t met. People disappoint you. Your body doesn’t cooperate the way it used to. That’s not negativity – that’s reality.

But negativity… that’s something else entirely.

It’s the voice that takes one small problem and turns it into a full-blown disaster. It’s waking up already convinced that the day is going to go downhill. Fast. It’s assuming the worst before anything even happens.

And if you’re not careful, it becomes your default setting. I’ve been there – I think most of us have. You spill your coffee on the floor, and suddenly the whole day is “shot.” You don’t get a reply to a message, and your mind starts writing a story – they’re ignoring me… something’s wrong… I messed up. They’re pissed off at me but won’t say it. They’re playing mental games…

One unexpected expense shows up, and now you’re mentally fast-forwarding to financial ruin. It’s exhausting. You literally feel it. 

It’s exhausting, not because life is that hard in those moments but because your mind won’t let anything just be what it is. Everything becomes bigger, heavier, and more dramatic than it needs to be. Catastrophizing is like pouring gasoline on every little spark.

And the strange thing is, after a while, it starts to feel normal. You almost expect things to go wrong. You brace for it and script it. You carry it around like a backpack you never take off. Even on a decent day, there’s this quiet tension underneath everything, like you’re waiting for the next problem to show up.

That’s the part people don’t always talk about – the drain.

Negativity doesn’t just affect your mood. It wears you down physically, mentally, and emotionally. You feel tired before the day even gets going. Small tasks feel like you’re walking uphill in three feet of snow on a biting cold day and wearing a light jacket and sneakers. Decisions feel heavier. Even good moments don’t land the way they should because your mind is already scanning for what could go wrong next.

It robs you quietly. And no, the answer isn’t to walk around pretending everything is great. That’s not real either. Some days are tough. Some situations genuinely suck. Ignoring it or slapping on a fake smile doesn’t help.

However, you can acknowledge something is frustrating without turning it into a full-blown crisis.  You can have a setback without deciding the whole day or week is ruined. You can feel disappointed without concluding that everything is falling apart.

That shift sounds small, but it changes everything. Instead of: “This always happens to me.”  It becomes: “That didn’t go well. Let’s move on.”

Instead of spiraling, you reset. And the more you do that, the lighter things start to feel.

Not perfect. Not magically easy – especially at first, when you are rewiring your brain and neural synapses. It will likely feel awkward and unnatural at first. Yet, you start to notice that most problems are moments, not life sentences. You recover faster. You don’t carry things as long. You don’t let one bad hour ruin the week. You stop looking back and thinking, “What a shitty week! Everything went wrong!” Truth be told, many things went well. You just have to count them, no matter how minute. 

It’s a quieter way of living and a lot less tiring. 

Life is already going to bring enough challenges on its own. You don’t need to amplify them. Sometimes the real win isn’t having everything go right. It’s simply not making everything worse in your own head. And that alone can change the entire feel of your day.

The World Didn’t End (Even Though My Mind Thought It Might)

This last week, my laptop’s built-in microphone suddenly disappeared.

One day it worked perfectly. The next, Windows reported “No input devices found,” and Microsoft Teams told me, “No microphone could be found.” After an hour or two of troubleshooting, I discovered I wasn’t alone. Other owners of the same laptop were reporting the identical problem after recent Windows updates. Thank you, Reddit and Acer. 

In other words, it wasn’t just me. But before I knew that, my mind had already written a much different story.

For years, I’ve noticed a pattern in myself. When something goes wrong, my first instinct isn’t simply to solve the problem and sometimes drive myself crazy doing so as I probe every possible solution and some that even technology hasn’t yet (I kid there). It’s to imagine all the consequences that might follow.

What if my editor thinks I’m making excuses? What if he thinks I’m unprepared? What if I miss an assignment? What if this costs me work?

None of those things had actually happened. They were simply possibilities my brain promoted to near certainty.

The reality was much less dramatic.

I messaged my editor, explained I was troubleshooting the problem, and his response was essentially, “No worries. I’ll just send you the work.” He even joked that another company we had been waiting to hear from was “the real Final Boss.”

The world didn’t end. The same thing happened on the Friday that just went past. For the first time in a while, I left my phone behind, turned on my out-of-office message, and took an afternoon for myself. Before walking away, part of me wondered what might happen.

What if someone needs me? What if I miss something important? What if there’s an emergency?

A few hours later, I came back. Nothing had happened. No crises. No damaged relationships. A couple of newsletters and a message from Amazon that my delivery was on the way. That’s it. 

The world had continued spinning quite happily without me checking my inbox every ten minutes – which is way too often.

I’ve carried an exaggerated sense of responsibility since childhood. Not because other people expect it, but because I expect it from myself. A sick day when I worked in an office? I felt guilty as hell for taking one. I even felt guilty once when I had pneumonia – we’re talking both lungs half-filled with fluid. 

If an email arrives, I should answer immediately. If technology breaks, I should fix it instantly. If an editor contacts me, I should never inconvenience them. If work exists, I should probably be doing it. Even potential work. 

Those are impossible standards to live by because they assume perfection in an imperfect world. Maybe that is part of the reason I started going gray in my early twenties.

Technology fails, and servers go down. Microphones disappear, and people get sick. People with one or more kids take a day off just to spend time with their families and don’t feel bad about it. Internet connections drop.

None of these things are personal. The interesting part is how differently I judge other people. If a colleague’s microphone stops working, I don’t think they’re irresponsible. If someone replies to my email the next morning instead of immediately, I don’t assume they’re lazy. If a friend takes an afternoon off, I don’t question their commitment.

I naturally extend grace to other people. I just don’t always extend it to myself.

That realization connects with another tendency I’ve written about before: my all-or-nothing thinking.

Somewhere and somehow, I developed an internal rule that says I should always be available, always productive, always solving problems, and always one step ahead. Maybe it comes from my tight deadline golf reporting. Maybe it comes from a former colleague who marked 90% of his emails as high importance, even though maybe one in a thousand were actually important and time-sensitive. It may come from thinking I always have to be here for people and that I must, not could, help them solve their problems. Or it could be that I’m just hardwired that way and the best I can do is manage it, not fix it.

Real life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes you’ve done everything you reasonably can.

That’s another lesson this week reinforced. There comes a point in every problem where the returns diminish.

The first thirty minutes of troubleshooting are productive. The next thirty might uncover another clue. But after a while, fatigue sets in. You begin to repeat the same steps, read the same articles, second-guess yourself, and become increasingly frustrated.

Ironically, that’s often the worst time to continue.

Walking away isn’t quitting; it’s recognizing that a tired brain rarely solves problems as well as a rested one.

The microphone issue will still be there tomorrow, or a patch will be sent and everything will be back to normal. The software update will still exist tomorrow.

The solution, if there is one, will still be there tomorrow. Stepping away isn’t abandoning the problem; it’s giving yourself the best chance to solve it.

I also thought about the editors I work with.

One has a young family. Another has a full life outside work. They work hard, but they also stop working. They don’t seem to carry the belief that every unanswered email is a five-alarm fire.

Work is important but it isn’t everything. 

That’s a healthier perspective than the one I’ve often carried.

I’m slowly learning that professionalism isn’t measured by constant availability or by never encountering problems.

It’s measured by communicating honestly, doing your best, adapting when things go wrong, and remembering that nobody – not even the most organized editor or the most experienced freelancer – gets through life without the occasional technology failure.

The microphone reminded me of something much bigger than a driver problem.

Sometimes the real issue isn’t the computer. It’s the story I tell myself as I try to fix it.

From Chaos to Control – How Concerts Grew Up

If you saw concerts in the 1970s or early 1980s, you remember it: general-admission seats, camping out overnight, the rush when the doors opened. You didn’t walk to your spot – you ran.

It was part of the experience and part of the risk.

Today, that world is mostly gone. Modern concerts – especially at the arena and stadium level – are remarkably controlled environments. Assigned seating for the most part, barricades, security lanes, and trained personnel. You know where you’re going, where you’ll sit (or stand), and what to expect.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. It was learned. Events like the Altamont Free Concert, the Isle of Wight Festival in 1970, and The Who concert in 1979 that saw 11 people trampled to death, made it clear that large, unmanaged crowds could turn dangerous. What had once been chaotic but mostly harmless – fans rushing the stage, bodies packed together – had crossed into something else entirely.

The industry responded by raising stages, introducing barriers, and deploying large numbers of professional security personnel to monitor and manage crowd flows. 

At the same time, the shows themselves got bigger. By the time of the Rolling Stones’ 1981 Tour, stages had expanded dramatically. Ramps, extended platforms, massive speaker arrays. And with the arrival of reliable wireless technology, performers were no longer tethered to a microphone stand or an amp.

A frontman like Mick Jagger could cover the entire stage – one moment at the center, the next at the far edge of a ramp, engaging a completely different section of the audience. From an audience perspective, it was incredible. From a band perspective, it changed everything.

In earlier years, musicians stayed close together, not just by choice, but by necessity. Cables limited movement. Stages were smaller. That physical proximity created a kind of musical intimacy that included eye contact, subtle cues, and shared timing.

As stages grew and performers spread out, that intimacy shifted. The band was still playing together but across space, often relying more on monitors and structure than on physical closeness.

By the late 1980s, especially with tours like Steel Wheels, the transformation was complete. Concerts became productions, and lighting rigs were synchronized. Better and better video screens magnified every movement while sound systems delivered clarity to the back row of a stadium. Security ensured that what happened in the front row remained under control.

Even the audience changed. The free-for-all general admission crowd gave way to a more structured, diverse audience: couples, casual fans, corporate attendees. The experience became something you planned and attended, rather than something you plunged into.

It’s easy to look back and say something was lost. And in some ways, it was. That sense of edge – the feeling that anything could happen – has largely disappeared. The risk has been engineered out of the system.

But something was gained, too. Safety. Consistency. The ability for thousands of people to experience the same show without incident.

The modern concert is, in many ways, a noteworthy achievement. But for those who remember the earlier days, there’s always that lingering thought: It used to feel a little more alive. Not because it was better in every way – but because it wasn’t entirely under control. And sometimes, that lack of control was exactly what made it unforgettable.

Don’t Tell Me How to Have Fun

The World Cup game was still on; Canada was losing 1-0 to Morocco (they eventually lost 3-0), and the restaurant had reached that familiar stage of sports-watching anxiety where logic starts quietly slipping out the side door. Nails are being bitten, people are playing armchair coach and player, and anxiety is building as Canada tries desperately to tie it up in the closing minutes. So far, so good. 

A few regulars – including me – were given restaurant swag before the game, including caps with the restaurant’s logo, as a thank-you for our ongoing patronage, which was a nice, unexpected gesture. Then, because Canada needed a goal, several people at our table and nearby tables decided it was time for rally caps.

You know the move. Hat turned inside out, backward, sideways, or whatever version of magic the moment apparently requires.

Fine. Have fun. Turn your hat into origami if it makes you happy. But it’s not for me and I resisted two requests to put my rally cap on. No thanks.  

Then I was told I was being too quiet during the game.

That is one of those little things that gets on my nerves quickly, and not just because of this particular game. It is the assumption that everyone has to enjoy something the same way. If you are not loud, animated, shouting at the television, wearing the hat, chanting the chant, doing the group bit, or performing enthusiasm in the officially approved manner, someone decides you are too quiet and not having fun.

Or worse, that you need to be corrected.

First, let’s be honest: rally caps look stupid.

I say that with affection. Sometimes looking stupid is part of the fun. Sports fans have painted their faces, worn foam fingers, put cheese on their heads, dressed as Vikings, and showed up shirtless in freezing weather. We all accept a certain level of ridiculousness when sports are involved.

But I still reserve the right not to participate.

Second, I do not follow the god of good luck.

I am not superstitious. I do not believe a hat turned the wrong way in Buckhorn, Ontario, has any influence on a soccer game being played in Houston. I do not think Canada’s game will improve because nine people at four tables in a restaurant perform a textile-based ritual over their foreheads.

If Canada scores, it will be because someone makes a good run, a good pass, a good shot, or Morocco makes a mistake. It will not be because Bob at table seven flipped his hat inside out.

Third, and this may be the bigger point: don’t tell me how to have fun.

Just because I am not saying much does not mean I am miserable. It does not mean I am bored, nor am I judging anyone in the room. It does not mean I need to be pulled into the noise to validate the room.

Some people enjoy games by yelling, playing coach and referee, and decking themselves out in their favorite country’s colors. I tend to watch. Maybe it’s the journalist in me that says don’t show bias (at least externally). Maybe it’s just who and how I am. 

I can be having a perfectly good time while saying very little. In fact, sometimes I have a better time because I say very little. I am watching the game, taking in the room, enjoying the absurdity, filing away blog ideas, and quietly laughing at the human comedy of it all. That counts.

There is also the alcohol factor. A few people have a few beers and get louder, looser, more animated, more willing to be silly in public. That is fine. We are in a restaurant watching a World Cup game, and that is to be expected. This is not a religious service. Nobody expects total silence and perfect posture.

But I am not drinking. My inhibitions are still right where I left them.

So what feels hilarious and freeing to someone after a few drinks might feel forced and uncomfortable to someone else. That does not make either person wrong. It just means we are experiencing the same room differently.

And that should be allowed.

The strangest thing about sports culture is how quickly “we’re all having fun” can turn into “you must have fun exactly like us.” Cheer this way. Wear this. Stand up. Yell louder. Care more (what is the measuring stick for how much you care?). Prove you’re into it.

No.

It is a game, and I will enjoy it how I want to, thank you very much. 

A wonderful game, maybe. A tense game. A meaningful game for the players, coaches, and fans who have followed every step of the tournament. But still a game.

If Canada wins (they lost), it will be great. People will cheer, high-five, celebrate, and talk about it for years. If Canada loses, everyone will still have to go home, pay bills, do laundry, answer emails, and figure out what is for dinner tomorrow.

The result matters in the moment. It does not define us. It does not define me. 

That is where I think some people lose perspective. They confuse volume with passion and superstition with loyalty. They confuse performance with enjoyment. If you’re not wearing the country colors, they ask why. I usually come back with one of two responses: “I didn’t feel like it.” Or, “I don’t need to wear the colors to support a team; I’m fine with not wearing them.”

I do not need a rally cap to prove I am enjoying myself. I do not need to shout instructions at professional athletes in another country – though I do sometimes say something to the TV, but at a conversational level. I do not need to act devastated or ecstatic on command.

Let people enjoy things in their own way.

If someone wants to wear the hat inside out, great. If someone wants to yell at the referee, go ahead. If someone wants to sit quietly, watch the game, sip a non-alcoholic beverage, and occasionally make a sarcastic mental note for a future blog post, that should be fine too.

The whole point of fun is that it stops being fun the second someone starts assigning rules to it.

So no, I will never wear a rally cap. But I am watching the game and enjoying myself. 

Life In The Facebook Group: The “Anywhere in the GTA” Travel Question

Travel Facebook groups can be incredibly helpful. People share great restaurants, hidden attractions, scenic drives, and places most visitors would never discover on their own.

But every now and then a question appears that is so broad it becomes unintentionally hilarious.

It usually goes something like this: “Looking for a good hotel in the GTA.” That’s the entire statement. No neighborhood. No price range. No reason for the visit. Just the GTA.

For anyone unfamiliar with southern Ontario geography, the Greater Toronto Area is not a small place.

It stretches across several major cities, dozens of towns, and roughly seven million people across 7,125 square kilometers (2,750 square miles). There are hundreds of hotels and motels of every kind, from ultra-luxurious to the Marriott and Hilton chains to budget hotels and motels that have seen much better days. 

And yet the question hangs there in the Facebook group like a mystery. “Looking for a good hotel in the GTA.”

Within minutes, the suggestions begin. Someone recommends a hotel near Pearson Airport. Another suggests a boutique hotel downtown.

Someone else recommends a place in Markham (to the northeast), some 20 miles from downtown. Then someone from Mississauga in the west end weighs in. And before long, the list includes places that are an hour or more apart, depending on traffic. Which, in Toronto, given the regular slew of traffic accidents and never-ending construction, could mean three hours apart.

Eventually, someone asks the obvious question. “Where in the GTA?”

But by then, the comment thread has already taken on a life of its own. Twenty suggestions. Thirty suggestions. A handful of disagreements. And someone is inevitably recommending a place that closed last year. 

Meanwhile, the original poster quietly disappears. Perhaps overwhelmed by the sudden list of hotels stretching from Oshawa to Oakville.

Or perhaps realizing that the GTA may be just slightly too large to summarize in a single question.

The Bartender Wasn’t the Problem

I was at my usual hangout with friends yesterday, settling in to watch England take on Norway in the World Cup – which England won. We had arrived early enough to grab good seats at the bar, order some food, and enjoy the pre-match conversation that always seems to happen before a big game. 

There was one empty seat beside me.

A man walked in, sat down, and immediately asked, no, he told me, “I hope you’re cheering for England.”

“I am,” I replied. “Although I have a feeling Norway will win.”

That was apparently all the invitation he needed.

For the next couple of minutes, I received an unsolicited lecture on England’s versus Norway’s lineups, why the English would prevail, and, somehow, before I knew it, a rudimentary history lesson that stretched from modern football all the way back to the British Empire and the Middle Ages.

I nodded politely. Internally, I was thinking, Thank you for the history lesson; I’m well-acquainted with British and European history, having read at least a dozen books on the subjects. 

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it; even though I reiterated twice that I didn’t want Norway to win, I simply had a feeling they would. 

The volume kept increasing, and yes, you could safely call it belligerence. Every few seconds came another booming “Go England!” that echoed through the room – despite the already talkative crowd and despite kickoff still being an hour away. It became obvious that he wasn’t simply enthusiastic. He had already done quite a bit of celebrating before arriving.

When he tried to order a drink, the bartender refused – offering him water instead. Then another bartender refused.

Predictably, he became upset and told everyone within earshot what happened. Not one person was empathetic or sympathetic. He argued. He raised his voice. He made a scene before finally leaving. Only afterward did I learn it wasn’t the first time. Apparently, it was the third occasion he had arrived already intoxicated and had been refused service, not to mention annoying other customers and being almost confrontational. 

As I watched him storm out, I knew the bartenders weren’t the problem. Both of them have been bartenders for at least a decade each and have seen just about everything. 

The customer was the problem. 

One of the easiest things we do as people is confuse consequences with unfairness.

We make a decision. The decision produces an entirely predictable outcome. Then we become angry at the person who applies the consequence.

But the consequence didn’t arise on its own.

He wasn’t refused because the bartenders disliked him. He wasn’t refused because they wanted to spoil his evening or because they were Norway supporters.

He was refused because they were doing exactly what they’re legally and ethically expected to do. Responsible alcohol service isn’t optional. It’s part of the job and the law. 

The decision that determined the outcome happened long before he walked through the door. Someone had several drinks before arriving and decided that wasn’t enough. Someone decided another drink or three at the bar would surely be fine and that the establishment would naturally oblige. 

By the time he reached the bar, the difficult decision belonged to someone else, and they did the right thing – refusing him service. 

What struck me most that afternoon wasn’t even the refusal itself. It was the professionalism of the staff. They stayed calm but firm. They didn’t match his volume. They didn’t insult him. They simply stood their ground and applied the same standard they would apply to anyone else.

That’s often the least appreciated part of customer service. People remember the person who shouted. They rarely remember the employee who quietly prevented a situation from becoming much worse.

By the time kickoff arrived, the atmosphere had returned to normal. Friends were talking football again. Food was arriving. The match became the focus, exactly as it should have been. Yeah, it was noisy in the place, but it was a noise you’d expect from cheering fans and not at all chaotic or vulgar. It was a respectful noise. 

The loudest person in the room had gone home convinced he’d been treated unfairly.

From where I was sitting, I saw something completely different. I saw someone experiencing the entirely predictable result of choices he had already made. Sometimes the easiest thing in the world is to blame the bartender rather than look in the mirror at the real problem.