I was 8 the first time I escaped the US. Some family members and I traveled to New York for a wedding. At this point in time, I remember exactly nothing about the wedding, but I do remember how I pestered my dad to go to Canada. This was pre-2001 where adults only needed a driver’s license and kids didn’t really need any ID to cross the border. So on Sunday, before heading back South, we went North. And this is what I remember: speeds were measured in kilometers per hour, signs were in English and French, and Ottawa was the most magical place I’d ever been with its soaring Peace Tower and its magnificent castles set atop a perfect hill. Of course, Parliament wasn’t cinderella’s castle, but it was still awe inspiring. Sadly for my future bank account and any relationships, an impromptu trip to Ottawa at 8 set me up for a lifetime of wanting to have an adventure.
Telling stories since 2005
