I planned to edit together several video clips that Oliver and I shot to review the smart fortwo electric drive this morning, but Google Photos just alerted me that it had done this itself.

The result is very very weird, but may in fact be more compelling than anything I could have created myself.

We had an hour to kill before IKEA opened this morning, so we stopped in at O’Regan’s Mercedes to test drive a smart fortwo electric drive (and learned, in the process, that smart no longer makes non-electric cars).

We shot a full video review, but the short story is that while the old gas-powered smart drove like a sluggish riding lawnmower, the electric drives like a rocket.

If we didn’t have the need to carry three people and a dog around—and if the PEI government offered the kind of electric vehicle subsidies that other provinces do—I’d seriously consider it to replace our Jetta.

This closing video of Smart Stuff That Matters 2018 captures the spirit of the weekend well.

I came surprisingly close to offering up my phone for Elmine’s wrecking hammer; in the end, though, I realized that I’d have no way to find our hotel in Amsterdam without it, and no way for people at home to contact me. It’s good to be aware of our technological dependencies in such stark ways from time to time.

I have often described the PEI Cancer Treatment Centre as simultaneously one of the saddest and happiest places on earth: when the sound of the “my treatment’s done and I’m cancer-free” bell rings out, there is no greater wave of joy to be felt flowing through the halls; but it is also a place of heart-wrenching conversations and great suffering, and you can see this chiseled into the faces of people in the waiting room, both those living with cancer and those supporting them.

In the last four years that I’ve been accompanying Catherine to treatments and doctors visits there, Tom Rath seemed ever-present; Tom, undergoing treatment for his own cancer, never had anything but a smile on his face, though, and we always took a minute to chat when we ran into each other. I’d known Tom from his days as a bed & breakfast operator in Murray Harbour, when he was active on the Tourism Industry Association of PEI, and had lost touch with him for many years once he stepped away from that; it was nice to make his acquaintance again, despite the circumstances.

Tom died on Sunday; the Eastern Graphic has a lovely description of his life, and his contributions to his communities, many of which I didn’t know about (I also had no idea he was another one of the seeming multitudes of Islanders born in Hamilton, Ontario).

I will miss my chats with Tom, and my heart goes out to his wife Frances.

After this morning’s very positive experience at Schiphol Airport, I had high hopes for the balance of the day. As usually happens, we had good times and challenging ones. But we survived, and as I type we are trying to stay up to a regular Atlantic Daylight Time bedtime.

Our transfer in Frankfurt was made much easier by not needing to clear security again (the secret here appeared to be taking the subterranean “passenger tunnel” that connects the A concourse where we arrived to the B concourse where we were to depart; if you happen to take the same tunnel someday, there’s an impressive photo installation by Martin Liebscher lining the wall). On the outbound voyage a couple of weeks ago we didn’t know we’d need to clear security while transferring to our SAS flight to Copenhagen, and it created some early morning jet-lagged transition stress.

Things took a turn for the anxious, however, when we arrived at gate B61, a cavernous basement cattle pen with not enough seats for we who were herded in. The lack of seating was inconvenient, but not stressful; the source of the stress was that each of the three Condor staff that we showed our “print out all attached documents and keep them with you during the whole journey” documents regarding Oliver’s need for assistance paid them no heed, and offered us no assistance whatsoever. As a result, when the pre-board call came, there was a crush of about 150 already checked-in passengers crowding to catch the buses to the apron. So we sat down and caught the last bus, which provided a little more calm. It was frustrating the Condor didn’t rise to the challenge of providing assistance.

The flight across the Atlantic was long (the extra 60 to 90 minutes that the westward flight takes vs. the eastward always makes coming home seem like a long slog). Oliver upped for the ‎€9 “premium entertainment” voucher to avoid having to watch one of the two “free” movies on offer; he watched Yes Man and Love, Simon. Meanwhile I watched four episodes of the new Jack Ryan series, downloaded in advance to my phone from Amazon Prime (the ergonomics of watching a film on a plane are horrible).

Oliver had a brief spasm of anxiety during my pre-landing “oh, right, I need to calculate how much we spent on things” calculations. He was very, very concerned with accuracy (as, of course, I was), and wanted to make sure I included everything, and that I didn’t include anything that we left in Europe. He also was concerned that we had a written record of all purchases and of all the places we visited. So I complied, and compiled. And he calmed down.

When we arrived at the customs line in Halifax there were approximately 300 people waiting in line, a mixture of Condor and Icelandair passengers.

Unable to face the prospect of managing a stressed-out Oliver for however long it would take to wend through the line, I redirected us to the line labeled “crew and special services,” rationing that it was indeed special services that we need. We waiting for about 20 seconds before we were in front of perhaps the kindest, most compassionate border agent I’ve ever met. I introduced him to Oliver; Oliver presented his lists; he complimented Oliver on his lists, and told him that he wish that all passengers were as organized. When he noted that we’d done a lot of stationery shopping in Halifax, he mentioned his own stationery interest, and ended up giving Oliver a pen. This experience reminded me that accessible service for people with autism is simple: just be clear, precise, and friendly. Which is the service that everyone should expect.

After a quick diversion to get a form filled out for the items we mailed ahead, we beat a path to the Quality Inn shuttle bay, and were checked in and in our room within 20 minutes. The Quality Inn doesn’t look like much, and it could certainly use some new hallway carpeting and a coat of paint. But the beds are comfortable and the rooms are clean. I expect, in any case, that we’ll be awake and on the road at 5:00 a.m.

Sitting here in the airport in Amsterdam I received the sad news that Jim Munves, a neighbour and great Islander, has died.

Jim and his wife Barbara were fixtures of our neighbourhood; I saw them just a few weeks ago walking around the block together. Jim briefly lost track of Barbara when she and her aid took a shortcut through the Murphy Centre parking lot; there was a palpable look of joy on both their faces when their reconnected.

Even though he lived just a few blocks away, shared an interest in public transit, and used to write talk pieces for The New Yorker, I never introduced myself to Jim. I always meant to, but was forever in a hurry; “I’ll get him on the next round.” Alas that’s exactly what I did last week, even though the opportunity presented itself. And so we never met.

By all accounts, Jim’s was a life well-lived; our neighbourhood won’t been the same without him. My sympathies to Barbara and their children.

We are heading home, and recorded a quick podcast here in Schiphol Airport after going through security.

Security passage, as you will hear, was greatly aided by advance planning: last week I contacted Condor, our “host” airline, requesting assistance for Oliver. They responded with a “DPNA” PDF file that I could print out that identified Oliver as a flyer-with-autism, and instructed me to print it out and show it along the way.

With the aid of this very helpful blog post from a mother and son in our situation, we knew to go to the “Assistance Desk” upon arrival at the airport. So that’s what we did. They took a look at Oliver’s paperwork and asked us to wait in the nearby “elderly and disabled” waiting area.

About 10 minutes later we were greeted by Pascal (pro tip: always ask assistants for their name; it instantly establishes a rapport) and I explained our situation. Pascal, it turns out, is an intern, halfway through his term at Schiphol, on the way to working in the air. He proved a useful aid, as he was able to be a sort of “advance man” out in front of us, opening the way for the special services (calmness, physical search, no crazy questions) that we needed. He walked us through check-in, and then from check-in to security, took us to the special services line there, explained to the security agent that we needed a physical search, walked through security himself (also getting a physical search), and pointed us on our way. We shook his hand, explained what a great help he’d been, with hopes that he will now go on to a more autism-flyer-friendly career.

The physical search itself was conducted by the kind Patrick (see earlier pro tip), and was done calmly and without delay. Oliver remained calm and happy throughout, even through, deep in our hearts, we were both nervous and a little anxious.

Once we left Pascal, we headed into the departure gates, spotted a “reboost in 5 minutes” massage chair, and Oliver eagerly volunteered. Best €2 we’ve spent today.

And then we made a podcast.

On to Frankfurt!

Young man relaxes with “revitalising shiatsu massage” at the airport after successful, calm passage through security. Best €2 we’ve spent today.

If there was a travel planning bug when I put this trip together, it was only leaving 48 hours for Amsterdam. But we had a hard start for public school on Thursday on one end, and TonElmineCon on the other, so there was, alas, no way to squeeze in more time. So we got to sample a quick swath of Amsterdam today in hopes that we one day use what we learned as the basis for a return trip.

We started the day with the bountiful breakfast at ZOKU (therein following Pete’s Law, “always book a hotel with a good breakfast buffet”), and then lazed around on the roof, reading and sketching for another hour (therein following Pete’s Law, newly-learned, “travel is not a race”).

With a spring in our step from the hearty, relaxing start, we headed out on the town just after 11:30 a.m.

Given the success of our Malmö cargo bicycle beta test, we decided that our first stop would be to try renting a Dutch take on the people-carrying bicycle, the Bakfiets bike.

We walked up the street to MacBike Rental at Waterlooplein and found a straight-talking, helpful clerk there who considered the possibility and advised that I should try riding the bike without Oliver first, lest I be unable to, and he fall out. I left Oliver as a deposit, and headed off for a loop around the block.

The bike was unusual to ride, not surprising given how long it is, and how the front wheel is steered indirectly. But I managed to get the hang of it, and returned unscathed (“most people, if they’re gonna fall off, do so in the first 20 seconds,” I was told). Next it was time for Oliver to join in: I held the bike steady while he climbed into the wooden box and sat down, and off I pedaled.

With 150 pounds of teenager in the box the bike was even more unusual to handle, and after half a block I realized that even if I could get a rhythm down, I wouldn’t feel comfortable merging into the chaotic flow of Amsterdam cycle traffic, so, with heartfelt hanks, we bid our host goodbye and continued on without cycle.

We walked west, through Rembrandtplein, and when we passed a Maoz Vegan restaurant on a corner Oliver, mindful of our need to eat and hydrate, insisted we stop for lunch, ever-mindful of my vegetarian tendencies. We enjoyed a couple of falafel sandwiches sitting at a counter overlooking both a tattoo & piercing shop and a multi-floor live sex show complex; Oliver was unphased.

Our next step was, I think, my favourite shop of our entire trip: the Boekie Woekie bookshop on Berenstraat is in its 32nd year of selling exclusively books made by artists; packed into its tiny storefront were more interesting books than I’ve seen gathered in one place anywhere. I stretched Oliver’s patience and spent 30 minutes plumbing the stacks, whittling my selections down to three tiny books that I could fit into my satchel. Since I started experimenting with printing and binding books this year, I’ve wondered if there might be a way that I could sell them; Boekie Woekie suggests that there is. I could have spent the day there. (Thank you to Robin Sloan, whose own visit to the shop, mentioned in his newsletter, was my inspiration for the visit).

Although we’d only been out for a couple of hours at this point, a break was in order, so we rounded the corner and walked up the canal to Koffiehuis ‘De Hoek’ where Oliver devoured a piece of Dutch apple pie and I discovered “fresh ginger tea,” which, as near as I can tell, is made simply by pouring boiling water over slices of fresh ginger (it was great).

Eager to see something of the Amsterdam waterfront, and armed with a recommendation from Harold, we walked to the central train station, through a tunnel under the tracks, and directly onto the ferry that runs to the area around the A’DAM building across the water (the ferry carries bicycles, scooters, and pedestrians, and it’s free). The neighbourhood across proved to be an interesting one to wander around: we largely ignored A’DAM (the perilous-looking swing suspending from the penthouse was forbidding-looking), but we toured an interesting shipping-container-housed exhibit on waste management in New York, Jakarta, Lagos, São Paulo and Amsterdam, got a coffee at Coffee Virus, hidden inside the A LAB, and then wandered around the A LAB itself (which appears, from our brief tour, to be kind of like Betahaus on steroids).

There was really only one place that I had to visit in Amsterdam, and that was Mediamatic.

I first learned of Mediamatic when the content management system cum wiki that powers its website was used to manage the website of one of the reboot conferences. I created a page for myself on the Mediamatic website back in 2007 and it’s been there ever since. Also since then I’ve been subscribing to the Mediamatic email newsletter and paying attention to its various projects. So I’ve developed an affinity for the place, even though I’ve never visited. Until today.

Mediamatic describes itself like this:

Mediamatic is a cultural institution dedicated to new developments in the arts since 1983. We organize lectures, workshops and art projects, focusing on nature, biotechnology and art+science in a strong international network.

As far as the general day-to-day public is concerned, the easiest way to experience Mediamatic is through Mediamatic ETEN, its restaurant, and that’s where we pointed ourselves for supper tonight.

That pointing turned out to be something of a vertical challenge, as dutifully following Google Maps’ directions put us in full view of Mediamatic, but on a bridge two stories above, initially unable to derive the geographical path between us and it. Fortunately an elevator manifested itself at the end of the tram platform, and soon we were walking onto the grounds and in the door of the restaurant.

Mediamatic ETEN is a vegan restaurant perched on the water, overlooking the Nemo science museum. They were serving pizza this evening, and we ordered up the Pizza Nero, an apple-pear juice, and a Swingers beer (“Reminiscent of sun, the beach and the fresh saltiness of the North Sea, Swingers is the perfect partner on the dance floor we call life.”)

The pizza, covered in mushrooms, onions, beans and greens, was delicious. And the beer was, indeed, reminiscent of the North Sea.

From Mediamatic, we took the hidden elevator back up to the tram platform, caught the № 26 to central station, and, from there, took the Metro № 53 back to ZOKU, stopping to take a photo of at least one of the city’s canals before leaving.

As I type we are in the sixth floor “living room” at ZOKU. I’ve just polished off another fresh ginger tea; Oliver a chai latte; and we shared a dish of mixed nuts (I could get used to having drinks and snacks easily-ordered 24/7).

Sitting here typing away I’ve just noticed that the cork map of the world that’s mounted on the wall behind Oliver is missing Prince Edward Island; if we had more time, I’d use the 3D printer at the bar to rectify this. But we don’t. So we’ll have to come back another time.

We take the long Amsterdam-Frankfurt-Halifax journey tomorrow, arriving in the early evening; after an overnight, we’re back on the Island on Wednesday afternoon. And Oliver starts grade 12 on Thursday morning.

I had a chat with Pedro yesterday about the utility of opening yourself up to “randomness” when traveling (or, for that matter, when moving through life). Randomness, put another way, is simply not having a plan, and allowing what might happen to happen. This does not mean that it doesn’t take effort: it’s often hard not to have a plan, not to fall into established patterns, to do what is expected of someone like you in such and such a situation.

Practicing this has resulted in some of the brilliant moments of travel in our family’s life. It’s how Oliver and I ended up by ourselves at the zoo in eastern Slovakia, how I found myself falling into a hole on a construction site in Munich, and how the path led us to be the only guests in a small hotel south of Barcelona. In each case we’d left the Lonely Planet at home, and headed off to see where the road might lead. It almost always leads somewhere interesting.

Today that interesting place was the storied Paradiso club here in Amsterdam. We hadn’t planned to go there; indeed we had no plans for this evening save perhaps to find a place for supper and to take a walk. But an accidental web search led me to learn that tonight at Paradiso was Sugar Mountain presents Tyler Childers, Parker Millsap, e.a. and that was interesting enough bill to catch my eyes; tickets were only €15 and that sealed the deal.

Paradiso is only a 20 minute walk, a straight shot parallel a series of canals, from our base here at ZOKU; between my noticing the show at 4:30 p.m. and heading out the door at 5:30 p.m. I managed to buy tickets, figure out how to use the printer in the lounge, print the tickets, and get ourselves packaged up for the evening.

As we walked into the main theatre and found a place to perch ourselves the lights came down and Parker Millsap and his band took the stage. From the first chord I realized that I was going to need ear protection to withstand the show with my 52 year old ears; fortunately the club helpfully has free foam ear plugs on offer at the door.

Millsap and his band were hard-driving country-influenced rock. They were a tight ensemble, and the played a solid set; it wasn’t particularly to my taste, but it was a good way to start the evening.

Millsap’s set was only 40 minutes long; as soon as it was over we moved to the smaller second-floor hall for Ruby Boots (“e.a.” in Dutch means “and others,” and Ruby Boots, fronted by Australian Bex Chilcott, was one of the others). The band is usually a guitar-heavy Americana band; this evening it was just Chilcott on guitar and a single band mate accompanying. They did their best to approximate the volume of the full band, and, with by Chilcott’s powerful voice and skillful songwriting, it was a delightful hour-long session.

The main event was Tyler Childers, back in the main hall.

While the other acts were solid, Childers and his band were crackerjack, and transported the night from a novelty to a happening. Their Kentucky-fueled country rock was well-crafted and energetic; it’s almost impossible to believe that Childers is only 27 years old, as his songs seem written by someone with considerably more life under their belt. We stayed for the entire 75 minute set, and enjoyed every song (it’s not every Kentucky country band that inserts a cover of Kiss Me by Sixpence None The Richer into their act).

Our lack of a plan served us well tonight; we’ve one more day to try the same approach again before we fly home to Canada on Tuesday.

(As should be obvious from the photos above, my aging phone’s camera is dreadful at low-light action shots; I wanted to include something to document the night, though, so I included the photos despite their fuzziness).