Longtime readers may recall my habit of killing airlines with my business.  Well, now it’s happened to SkyEurope, the airline Oliver and I flew from London to Kosice in March.  The 60 EUR ticket and the tatty Bulgarian Airlines plane were an early indication to me that SkyEurope my not have a sustainable business model.

So here I am in Copenhagen, leaving 5 tonnes of carbon emissions in my wake (about what driving 500 km a week — from Charlottetown, PEI to Yarmouth, NS — for a year in our 2000 Jetta would emit), to “exchange ideas and debate the issues of climate change” as part of the Th!ink About It Launch Event.

The theory is, I suppose, that my two days of interactions with 81 fellow bloggers from around the world — or at least from the climate change-causing part of the world — will catapult me back home filled with the verve to blog so passionately about the Prince Edward Island side of climate change to undo the damage I’ve done to the climate by getting here.

This requires either an intense belief in the power of the word, or a certain suspension of disbelief in the absurdity of the proposition.  Or something of both.

This is not the only absurdity involved in the proposition, as these two days lay the groundwork for a 3-month blogging competition, a notion packed with its own weirdness.

I suppose if you twinge your mind to think of this as a sort of “climate change Booker Prize” it’s makes slightly more sense.  Except that I’m fairly certain that Aravind Adiga did not set forth to write a novel urged on by the spirit of competitive writing.

As I’ve written many times before, I write this blog because it’s the best mechanism I’ve found for processing the hornet’s nest of ideas that clutter my mind.  I do it for myself, not for an audience.  Although the presence of an audience — the rigor that writing in public — is integral to the process, I’ve certainly never done it with any greater purpose in mind, nor to educate, inform, or publicize any deeper issue.  If you happen to learn something by reading the words in this space, that’s an accident, not my intention.

So jumping into a trans-Atlantic telephone booth an emerging as a blogger with a purpose, and, what’s more, a blogger engaged in a pitched battle to out-blog eighty competing bloggers seems, at least on the surface, like a perversion of the process. 

Absurd, you might say.

So here’s my rationale: I don’t actually care all that much about climate change.

Oh, I do go on about the importance of public transit.  And I happen to think of cars as evil beasts cluttering up the city.  And I’ve been known to indulge in some recreational carbon offsetting.

But I do not have the climate change fire in my belly.

I was unmoved by An Inconvenient Truth.  I blithely pump gallons and gallons of oil into my uninsulated house every winter.  I eat strawberries from California in the winter.  And kimchi dumplings flown in from Seoul.

On an intellectual level I’m on-board, and I’m certainly not a climate change denier.  But climate change indignation exists at a level roughly parallel to “inappropriate typeface indignation” in my day to day life.

And while it might seem even more absurd, what with my “oh yah, climate change” attitude, to come all this way for a town meeting of the climate change passionate, maybe that’s exactly why I’m here: to be the eyes and ears of the casually disinterested.

After all, if climate change is something to be addressed by mass individual action, surely it’s the hearts and minds of the casually disinterested coal-and-oil-swilling rich North Americans that must be won over.

So that’s where I’m starting, and that’s how I’m come to terms with the overarching absurdity of the enterprise.

Let’s see where I end up after two days of “Climate Change – the EU’s response,” “The Samso experiment – When an island turned green” and “On the Road to Copenhagen – stakes and state-of-play of negotiations.”

Johnny and I took a trip down to New Hampshire this week to visit our colleagues at Yankee Publishing. Air Canada’s high fares (and poor service) combined with a desire to have a stopover in Ontario conspired to have us take WestJet from Charlottetown to Toronto and Porter Airlines from Toronto to Boston.

This was my first experience of Porter after reading of its virtues in all manner of urban hipster publications (Wallpaper, etc.). Porter has street cred with the hipster crowd approaching that of the iPhone, and so after years of suffering the nasty neglect of Air Canada, I was looking forward to the change.

There are three approaches you can take to running an airline.  You can be an elephantine incumbent, weighed down by years of “that’s the way we’ve always done it” and unable, as a result, to crack a smile (Air Canada, for example). You can be a randy upstart ready to point out at every turn that you are not the elephantine incumbent, even if it means telling an endless series of Toronto Maple Leaf jokes (i.e. WestJet). Or you can just try really hard to make air travel recede into the background.  This is the approach the Porter takes: rather than trying to point how how they’re a better airline than anyone else, they simply set aside the entire notion of being an airline at all.

I don’t mean to suggest that they don’t do all the things an airline needs to do, like getting you from point A to point B in a timely manner, but rather that they do all they can to make flying seamlessly integrate into real life. So rather than trying to distract you with humour and live television (WestJet), or annoy you with benign neglect and not even trying to try (Air Canada), Porter applies so much finesse to each choke point of the air travel process that you emerge neither delighted nor annoyed, but simply in another place, unfrazzled.

And Porter does have finesse.

It helps that they have Toronto City Centre Airport (née Toronto Island Airport) all to themselves: this means that they have end-to-end control over the passenger experience.  So there’s no clutter: no Hudson News shops, no Duty Free shops, no CIBC credit card hucksters, no advertising, no Muzak.  In other words, none of the cacophony you usually find at airports that scream “you are someplace different and stressful.”

Check-in was smooth and quick. There was no security line. There was wifi, espresso, and ginger cookies in the lounge (the lounge open to all passengers, not just the elite), the coffee cups were pre-heated by some magical machine and there were plentiful demitasse spoons on offer.

The walk to the plane was short — they pull the airplane right up to the door, which seems a miracle but makes perfect sense — and the plane itself, a Bombardier Q400, while a turbo-prop, had much less noise and vibration than the Dash 8.  The crew uniforms are as if designed by Tyler Brulé himself: throwbacks to the 1940s with pillbox hats for flight attendants and jaunty caps for pilots.  Fruit and muffins for breakfast.  Comfortable seats. Muted but pleasant service.

We arrived at Boston Logan on time, breezed through an empty customs hall at Terminal E, and were on the bus to the rental car about 15 minutes after arriving.

The flight back was equally pleasant, although there’s no Porter Lounge at Logan so we were left to the regular terminal setting (although because it was Terminal E in the morning, where most international flights depart in the evening, there was, again, no security line and the terminal was virtually empty).  In Toronto, Porter offers a free shuttle from the ferry dock to the Royal York, and we caught the wifi-equipped Airport Express bus from there to our connecting flight at Pearson without any waiting at all.

In the end, there’s no particularly remarkable feature of Porter that knocked my socks off (well, there was the heated espresso cups): the whole experience was more like getting on an elevator in Toronto and stepping off in Boston than it was like a carnival or a prison term. And that’s a pretty good way to run an airline.

I am a compulsive email archivist, and have a complex web of folder on my IMAP server where I squirrel away almost anything remotely of interest. As a result I do a lot of dragging-and-dropping inside the Mail.app application that I use to read my email most of the time.

What happens half the time I do this is that instead of dragging-and-dropping the message I’m clicking on, the application goes into “select multiple messages” mode, and I get frustrated.

This morning, however, I discovered the secret for avoiding this: click and hold on the messages you want to drag and drop. After a moment the message highlighting will change, signaling “drag-ready” status.  At that point you’re good to go.

Not ready for drag and drop:

Ready for drag and drop:

Maybe everyone else has always known about this, but I didn’t, and coming to realize it has made my emailing much less frustrating.

We’re about to leave our colleagues at Yankee Publishing here in New Hampshire to start the long and circuitous journey home.

First we drive down to Boston for the night.  Then it’s an early water-taxi to Logan Airport, a flight to Toronto Island Airport on Porter, a bus to Pearson Airport, and, finally, a WestJet flight to Charlottetown.

In all it will take us just under 24 hours to get home.

Then, after an 18 hour rest, sleep, rapid-fire parenting and Farmer’s Market break, I head out just after lunch on Saturday back to Toronto, have a brief layover, and then fly overnight to Frankfurt, switch planes and fly to Copenhagen, get on a train and take the brief hop over to Malmö where I’ll spend the day with Olle and Luisa before heading back to Copenhagen where the TH!NK2 launch starts on Monday morning.

It will, in other words, be a minor caffeine-aided miracle if I’m in any shape to drink in a two day’s worth of climate change wisdom (PDF of programme).

While I’ve got a cocktail party a week Saturday and a Coworkingboat Hackfest a week Sunday, my time from Wednesday to Sunday next is my own, and I’m going to try hard to unplug and lay around somewhere, neither thinking nor working nor hacking.  Nor traveling.

Before I do it all — or at least some of it — in reverse the following Monday.

See you on the other side.

I think I have a pretty normal suite of dreams — the usual “old girlfriend shows up and wants to make out,” “local property developer runs me over in his car,” “webserver load average spirals out of control” that everyone has — but it perplexes me that I tend to dream only when I travel.

This is likely due, at least in part, to the sub-par pillows one encounters on the road. There’s nothing like a bad pillow to keep you in a suspended state between reality and fiction while sleeping. And the psychological turmoil of travel — different places, different foods, the need to conduct an active social life — likely take their toll too (the brain has to work through all of that somehow).

But it’s still disconcerting.

As if a different time zone, a radically different diet, a modified coffee routine, and the absence of those I hold dear isn’t enough, I’ve got to endure a nightly playbill of Tim Banks pursuing me in a Kia Rio, “oh, that lesbian thing was just a phase,” and Apache eating up all available memory. 

It doesn’t make for a well-rested start to the day, especially a day on the road that involves the need to, well, think.

I just sat down and reviewed my travel schedule for the next two weeks — a week in New Hampshire with our colleagues at Yankee Publishing followed by a week in Copenhagen for TH!NK2 — and realized that next weekend I’m flying from Toronto to Charlottetown on Friday afternoon and then, 18 hours later, flying back to Toronto, en route to Copenhagen via Frankfurt.

The ironic of this becomes somewhat more rollicking when you factor in that I’m going to Copenhagen to write about climate change.

And yet, rather than doing the sensible thing and staying overnight in Toronto, I’m going to follow through on my plans, simply to be able to spent 18 hours with Oliver and Catherine.

Family trumps planet.

It doesn’t make sense. Or it does.

Those of you who’ve been here since the 60s may recall the seminal post Getting a Two Year Old to Sleep, most remarkable for the heart-wrenching string of comments that followed it from parents stuck in a similar situation.

I’m happy to report that the years from age 3 to age 8 went pretty well, sleep-wise, for our Oliver.  There were occasional battles over the degree of light dimming, some sleep-walking, and a nightmare here and there, but generally bedtime was a gentle happy time.

Then, in the middle of this summer on a very, very hot night, everything went to hell: Oliver got the idea in his head that he couldn’t get to sleep.  Likely because he actually couldn’t get to sleep, what with the 32 degree temperature and the 98% humidity.  But such ideas have a way of amplifying themselves, and even though the heat melted away a few days later, the “I can’t get to sleep” idea was stuck on Oliver’s head, and was joined by a gang of “I’m afraid of monsters,” and other revelations that were likely always there, but sufficiently latent as to not be a practical issue.

Suffice to say that the last few months have been, well, not a gentle happy time.  And I think we all got a little crazy about it, and it became a stand-in for things that had nothing to do with sleep at all.

I remember when Oliver was three years old our paediatrician asked us what our “parenting philosophy” was.  We didn’t have a real answer, so I think we made something up on the spot.  I don’t think it occurred to either of us that we’d actually need a formal philosophy of parenting.  Or at least not to me.  If anything I’m a member of the “everything should just work itself out in the end” school of parenting.

Except, of course, when it doesn’t.

Sleep-wise, it all came to a head on Tuesday night.  Catherine was away for the night, and both Oliver and I were in a grumpy mood, not well-disposed to sober contemplation.  After his bedtime story and tuck-in, I went downstairs and Oliver jumped up and turned on his room light.  I went upstairs and turned it off.  Rinse, repeat. A half a dozen times.

Finally, in a misguided move, I went up and removed the lightbulbs from his light, a move I now see as tantamount to cutting off Oliver’s oxygen.  He did not react well, and tantrums resulted on both sides.  There was some thrashing about on Oliver’s side, and some “lifting up and carrying back to bedroom” action on my side.  I raised my voice for the first time that I can remember (something that came as a shock to both of us).

Fortunately Catherine came home shortly thereafter and brought some sober second thought into the mix: the change of approach worked, helped by the late hour, and Oliver was asleep a while later.

Not my proudest parenting episode, and perhaps evidence that improvisational dictatorship doesn’t always work out.

You know what my greatest weakness as a parent is?  It’s that I want Oliver to do things for the intrinsic rightness of doing them.  I want him to go to bed because it’s the right thing to do.  And when he doesn’t see the same value in it that I do, I get frustrated.

Yes, I realize this is a naive and somewhat crazy approach, but it’s where I’m starting from.

In the post-game analysis that came yesterday, I was guided by three useful pieces of advice.

First, in reading about kids and sleep and their challenges, time and again I ran into the suggestion that children really are afraid of the dark, and that to force them to sleep with their light off is cruel and unusual punishment.  Oops.

Second, my brother Johnny talked to me about his own reading that suggested that kids rarely act out of nefarious hidden agendas: in other words, if they’re distressed and worked up, it’s likely because they’re distressed and worked up, not because they’re trying to ruin your life.

Finally, my old friend Tim, a veteran parent (or at least a parent with 3 years of parenting on me) suggested that maybe Oliver didn’t actually need to go to sleep. At least not when and how I dictated.

Combining all this sage advice into a new approach, I launched a new plan last night.

First, Oliver and I had a talk about the night before and how things had gone.  I asked him for guidance on what really bothered him about getting to sleep, and he said he really wanted to have his light on.  I suggested that maybe we needed to look at getting him a new light, for the table beside his bed, something bright enough to hold off the monsters, but not too bright to prevent him from sleeping.

He thought this was a good idea, so we popped over to Home Hardware, spent $11 on a reading lamp, brought it home and set it up, had the usual bedtime story and tuck-in, and then I left Oliver to his own devices.

Thirty minutes later I went to check up on him and he was still awake, reading The Old Farmer’s Almanac for Kids (he knows what side his bread is buttered on), and very excited to have learned about the invention of television.

Sixty minutes later I went to check up on him and he was fast asleep.

End analysis: bedtime was much more like a gentle happy time than it had been for a long time, nobody was distressed or anxiety ridden, monsters were kept safely at bay, and Oliver, despite his late-nite research into the cosmos, was actually asleep an hour earlier than he’d been during the days of pitched sleep battles.

Now one night’s success isn’t enough to build a new parenting philosophy on.  But it was certainly enough to snap me out of my patterns to listen more carefully to the situation and react with more sense than bravado.

Parenting, it seems, is hard sometimes, and doesn’t always just work itself out.

I used to hear people talk about “becoming involved” with their child’s school and all I could think of was Harper Valley PTA.  And those uncomfortable meetings I used to have with my parents and various school officials about my various aberrant characteristics.

Why would you want to become involved with school? School was something you were supposed to escape from, not look for additional reasons to become involved with.

And then two unexpected things happened.

First, I found that the teachers, principal and support staff at Prince Street School, where Oliver starts grade 3 on Tuesday are not jerks. 

I’d simply assumed they would be jerks.  Because I’d always thought of teachers as jerks. When you’re a frustrated kid in the 1970s, it’s hard not to thnk that way.

But, apparently, they are not. 

Today, for example, we had an hour long meeting with Oliver’s new teacher.  He listened to us talk about Oliver, we listened to him talk about grade 3, and we worked out plans for trying to make sure Oliver thrives this year like he did last year.

On the way out the door I popped my head in the principal’s office and he spent 30 minutes with us himself, patiently explaining some things we had questions about, giving no hint of the maelstrom of activity swirling hidden around him with 4 days to go until the school opens.

Here’s the key to understanding teachers and principals, I think: if you demonstrate to them that you want to work with them, not against them, and that you are passionate about your child’s learning, they will return the favour.

So as much as it surprises me, we’re involved now.  We’ve got the teacher’s email address and promise of an open door and a flexible approach.

The other unexpected thing that happened last year was getting involved in the Home and School. 

I am so not a joiner of things.  Especially things involving other parents. 

But last year in a fit of insanity I put my name down on the volunteer list, and ended up as Treasurer.

It turns out that other parents are also not jerks.

In fact the Home and School is the singularly most effective organization I’ve ever been a member of.  It’s all about the practical, with no political intrigue, theoretical sparring, or wasted effort.  The Home and School is more about “what do we need to do to be able to buy a new whiteboard for the grade 2 classroom” than about complaining about the school (which is what I’d assumed it was about). 

And when you spend a lot of your time working on very long-term, multi-year projects, working on doable projects with a timeframe of, say, “next Friday’s movie night,” is incredibly refreshing.

Also — and this is a bonus for those of you of the “too many ideas for your own good” inclination — as long as you’re willing to do the work, the Home and School will get behind almost any idea that’s good for kids and good for the school.  Want to organize a Tuesday night basketball league?  An after-school astronomy program?  Get the playground equipment repaired?  Get more art books into the library?  You’re in.

So here’s my suggestion: if you’re a parent, likely this week or next week or the week after that there will be a meeting at your child’s school.  Something like “meet the teacher” or “school open house.”

Go.

And meet the teacher: get to know them, and let them get to know you.  Ask what you can do to help out in the classroom.  Ask to see the classroom.  Get their email address.  Thank them for all the work they’re about to do.

And then on your way out the door stop by the Home and School table and, despite your better judgment telling you not to, put your name down.  Go to a meeting.  Volunteer for something.

All of this may feel vaguely alien at first.  But if my unexpected experiences are any guide, you will likely be surprised, your child will likely end up with a better education, and you’ll probably have some fun too.