For the last 60 minutes, I’ve been sitting here in the lobby of the Atlantic Technology Centre, the longest time I’ve spent in this building. Over the weekend, Catherine and I attended the [surprisingly excellent] stand-up comedy evening at the new Student Centre at the University of PEI.

Both spaces suffer from what I will call “multipurposeness.” Their designers were obviously charged with designed spaces that could be used for innumerable functions. Indeed John Hughes, Manager of the Technology Centre, when he took me through on a tour last year, was very proud of the fact that walls could move, cables could be re-routed, and spaces completely transformed very easily.

Here in the lobby of the Technology Centre, the aesthetic is “change” — the chairs have casters, the furniture moves around, the partitions are portable, the giant plasma screens can swing around. About the only thing that can’t move easily is the giant Pepsi machines.

Up in the Student Centre, the aesthetic is “washable with a fire hose.” Everything is made of concrete and steel; the doors to the performance hall cum cafeteria are garage style. Although The Wave, the pub inside the space, achieves some degree of intimacy, even in that space there is a sense that it could be converted to a electoral polling station or a blood donor clinic or a primary school classroom with the flick of a couple of switches.

I fear that what we gain in flexibility in these spaces, we lose much more in the lack of a “sense of place.” Both spaces could exist anywhere in North America. Neither responds to or is related in any way to its environment. Neither feels comfortable, nor unique, nor inviting.

Walk into Province House, arguably the greatest building in Charlottetown, and you know immediately where you are. The space oozes Charlottetown, and indeed the building appears to grow right out of the earth that surrounds it. The interior spaces are quirky and purpose-built. Although you can hold a dance in the legislative chambers (obviously), you’ve be hard-pressed to build a bowling alley or accommodate a storage area for airplane parts.

I’ve no argument with the architects or designers of these modern spaces, for quite clearly they accomplished the task they were given. And there are obviously benefits to flexibility (especially when this whole IT things implodes and this building needs to become a cattle processing station, or a fallout shelter, or, more likely, another generic office building).

But by achieving the ultimate in flexibility, they have also achieved the ultimate in genericness. They can be used for any purpose, and thus they speak to no purpose. Sitting here I could be anywhere. And as a result, I am nowhere.

The last multipurpose craze I lived through was in the late 1960s and early 1970s when there was a school building boom in Ontario. Almost all of these schools, partly under the spell of the “tear down the walls” message of the Hall-Dennis Report, incorporated “flexible” spaces. My grade 7 classroom had dividers down the middle, and could open up to the grade 8 classroom to become one big room. Libraries gave way to general purpose “resource centres.” Cafeterias and gymnasiums became “cafeteriums” or “gymneteria.”

The effect was the same: going to school inside those modern contraptions, especially contrasted to the 100-year-old schools that I attended before and after them, felt like being nowhere.

Being nowhere isn’t a pretty place to be. Not then, not now.

As I type this, I’m online from the Atlantic Technology Centre, using the Aliant “free” WiFi connection that has been much-touted by the company (approximately 3 years after the rest of the world “got” WiFi, mind you).

Others have reported problems accessing the WiFi here, and that may be because it’s only “free” in the sense that you don’t have to pay money, not in the sense that you don’t have to chant special Aliant legal voodoo to get online.

If you’re having problems, simply point your web browser at any old website; you’ll get auto-redirected to the Aliant WiFi sign-in page (geek note: you’ll be talking to a Apache/1.3.28 server running on Solaris 8), where you have to enter your name, email address, password, and agree to a lengthy set of terms an conditions that covers everything from agreeing not to send spam to agreeing not to check your email every 5 minutes, 24 hours a day.

Once you jump through this hoop, you’ll have “free” access to the Internet as you might expect.

As I type this, however, a chap who works in the building, who has a Compaq computer, reports that he’s been here a month and has only been able to get access to the WiFi once, and after that he’s never been able to do it again. Interestingly, his solution to this quandry has been to go across the street to Cedars Restaurant and use their free WiFi. The Internet always routes around problems!

By the way, if you live in the block bounded by Prince, Richmond, Hensley and Grafton, you can probably pick up the free WiFi beaming out of our back window at 100 Prince St. We’ve moved the WiFi access point to the back of the house, so reception will be better inside the block than outside. No sign-in or acceptance of terms and conditions required.

Here’s a message I sent earlier this week to the customer service department at JetBlue:

I had a wonderful flight from Denver to Boston yesterday, and have no complaints.

However I did notice that on the default in-flight display on the seat-backs that shows the plane’s position, the heading in the top-left corner of the screen when on the ground in Denver is “SOUTHWEST” (because the map is showing the southwest corner of the U.S.).

In my late-night bleariness, I thought for a second I was on the wrong airline. In any case, it is perhaps an unintended advertisement for your competition!

Here’s the response I received this morning:

Thank you for your email regarding your recent nightmare while on JetBlue! Sorry for the scare, we always want you to have blue and tranquil dreams while sleeping in our beautiful planes! Rest assured we would never advertise for a competitor!

We look forward to seeing you on another JetBlue flight soon, until then have sweet blue dreams!

No worries!

The door (or not the door) at the Longevity Café, Santa Fe, New Mexico. They make a mean “mind demuddler” herbal cocktail, have WiFi, and have created a great place to hang out.

Sign posted inside the men’s washroom at the Sonic Drive-in, Gallup, New Mexico.

In light of recent “JetBlue is just another airline” backlash in the blogosphere, here are my impressions of a recent JetBlue flight from Denver to Boston.

First, the television, which JetBlue uses as a big selling point, wasn’t a big deal for me because my flight left at midnight and arrived at 5:30 a.m., so I tried to sleep for most of the flight. I did catch an episode of Jamie’s Kitchen on the Food Network, which was nice. The quality of the DirectTV signal wasn’t very good on take-off or landing; there’s a blurb about this before the service starts that is relatively honest about this limitation; mid-flight, however, it was crystal clear. Another limitation of the television service, at least on overnight flights, is that a majority of the 24 channels switch to playing infomercials at some point, so the content selection when I woke up around 5:00 a.m. was pretty poor.

Perhaps the biggest difference between JetBlue and other airlines (like Air Canada and America West, which I flew earlier in my trip), was the quality of the customer service. From check-in through boarding, to an introduction to the flight from the captain out in the cabin before we took off, JetBlue staff were universally helpful, witty, and honest.

Check-in took about 15 seconds. I handed my passport to the person at the desk, she tapped a couple of keys and handed me my boarding pass. I have never understood why it takes Air Canada check-in staff enough typing to compose a small essay just to give me my boarding pass; I guess JetBlue never understood this either.

Denver International Airport is somewhat confusing if you’re used to other airports: check-in is in one building, boarding is in a series of concourses that are reached, after going through a central security checkpoint, by an underground train system. This isn’t explained very well anywhere, and the system assumes that everyone knows what the word “concourse” means, which I didn’t. After I figured out the system, however, everything flowed well. Of course it’s easy to run an airport at 11:00 p.m. when there are only 2 or 3 flights left to go out.

Boarding the plane was low-key and well conducted. A gate agent with a sense of humour made a lot of helpful announcements, well in advance of boarding, about how things would proceed. Advance boarding was offered not only to “passengers with small children” but also to “anyone else who wants a little more time to get to the gate.” That was a nice touch.

Once on board, I found the in-flight crew equally charming. When flying Air Canada, especially in recent years, the flight attendants act like school principals, guarding the plane from the passengers and trying to keep everyone in line. In contrast, the JetBlue crew actually appeared to care about whether passengers were comfortable. In the end, this is simply a matter of attitude, and the practical effects aren’t great. But flying is stressful, and every little bit of JetBlue friendliness is amplified just as much as every bit of Air Canada surliness.

About 10 minutes before take-off, the captain came out into the cabin and introduced himself, gave a brief overview of the flight, assured us he was going to keep the cabin warm, and would stay off the PA, so that we could sleep, and entertained any questions. He was dressed in a leather jacket, and looked more like a steely bush pilot than a doctor with wings. I liked that.

We left on time.

Once in the air, the in-flight service was freed from the ungainly cart: flight attendants came by with an order pad, asked you what you wanted, and came back later with your drink on a tray. Again, it was a small thing, but the effect was to make cart-ridden airplanes appear dinosaur like.

True to his word, the captain kept the cabin warm, and stayed off the PA until 10 minutes before landing. I had three seats to myself, so I was able to stretch out and get some sleep. The leather seats weren’t as much of a big deal for me as they would have been if I had been sitting for the entire flight, but they seemed comfortable.

We arrived on time.

JetBlue arrives at Terminal E at Logan, which isn’t exactly a temple of modernity (not that anywhere at Logan is), and this means a hike to another terminal if transferring to another airline.

While it shouldn’t be revolutionary to receive good service, to leave and arrive on time, and for small nice touches to loom so large in importance, in today’s airspace, it is. Flying Air Canada feels like flying a Greyhound Bus staffed by unhappy prison convicts. JetBlue feels, ironically, like flying did 25 years ago, albeit with better aesthetics, and less oppulence.

Jared says “Just because your doctor’s office has cable TV in the waiting room doesn’t mean that getting a colon screening has actually become something fun to do.” And he’s right. But it helps. And so does having a doctor that appears to care about your well-being, and executes the procedure with good humour and efficiency. Flying is stressful and, in the end, not a natural thing for humans to do; JetBlue is a good airline because it knows this, and takes a thousand little steps to mitigate it.

By the way, I’m still waiting for David Neeleman to invite me to lunch.

As I write this, in Concourse A of Denver International Airport (tethered to a $9.99/day WiFi connection from AT&T Wireless that blankets the entire property), Mike and I have undocked from each other. I am flying back to Boston overnight, and on to Charlottetown tomorrow; Mike is headed east by car: Nebraska, Chicago, Toronto, back home on Saturday night with a Cubs game somewhere in the middle.

I think our other family members think it’s something of a miracle that Mike and I not only decided to hook up for the Phoenix to Denver portion of his American Journey, but actually followed through, didn’t kill each other, and enjoyed the experience to boot. But we did.

As it turns out, we have very compatible traveling styles (perhaps best termed “improvisation with a touch of planning”), we have almost equal tolerance for in-car word games (Mike, as it turns out, is more clever than I, which is a painful but necessary knock to my elder brother ego), and a similar sense of culinary adventure (we made up for the deep-fried gack from last night with a truly delightful vegetarian meal at Watercourse Foods here in Denver).

I feel like I’ve been gone from home forever, mostly because this has been a dizzying three-stage, two-week trip that took me to seven U.S. states. Catherine and Oliver are safely returned from their visit to Ontario, and I’m eager to reunite our little family tomorrow.

Tonight I became a member of REI, an American cooperative selling outdoors and travel gear, in the same vein as Mountain Equipment Coop in Canada. Membership is $15, and lasts for life.

REI has one of their so-called “flagship” stores here in Denver, and it is truly a sight to behold: a giant old 1901 building that once held the power plant for Denver’s trolley system, filled with every possible gadget, kayak, tent, breathable blouse, mosquito-repelling shirt and buck knife you might ever have call for.

My needs were more modest: I replaced the IZOD-brand polar fleece jacket I bought in 1998 to go to Korea with a new one, much in the same style.

Had I desired, I could have also climbed their indoor rock wall, tested a bicycle on their buildingside outdoor mountain bike course, or sipped a Tall Iced Mocha from the onsite Starbucks.

The staff — as with almost all customer service employees we’ve encountered here in the U.S. — were friendly, talkative and helpful. I think I probably could have obtained complete directions for climbing Mount Everest from any of them should I have asked.

My $15 membership entitles me to a 10% dividend on all purchases, discounts on workshops, and a host of other benefits. Mostly I ponied up, however, because I think cooperatives are a Good Thing and deserve our support.

I’ve a feeling that if there was an REI location in Charlottetown, I would magically transform into an Outdoors Guy simply for its presence. As it is, I like my new jacket.

I had an exciting opportunity to become a customer of Denver Transit today, taking the bus downtown from the suburbs where brother Mike was dealing with VW challenges. Here’s what I learned:

• Denver is known (at least by its transit department) as the “cradle of accessibility.” Evidence from my trip certainly suggests this is true: 100% of their buses are are wheelchair accessible, with flip-down ramps that come out from under the front stairs. I read a pamphlet on the bus about a recent Americans with Disabilities Act judicial “consent decree” that forces the transit department not only to offer accessible transit, but also forces them to treat all of their passengers with respect, and to allow them to configure their wheelchairs as they like (i.e. strapped in or not, etc.). Catherine has always said the ADA is a powerful tool, and at least here in Denver that seems to be true.
• You can phone 1-888-RTD-TRIP for “real time bus information.” I did this for my bus stop, and was told that the next bus would be along in 20 minutes. The next bus arrived 2 minutes later. In theory, you can also go to www.gortd.com with a WAP-enabled cell phone and get the same data, but that didn’t work for me.
• There is no advertising, save for transit advertising (“don’t litter” and “don’t shout” mostly) on Denver buses. There is, however, advertising on the benches at the bus stops.
• You can spend up to 15 years in prison for causing a disturbance on a bus in Denver.
• In Denver you’re allowed to use a transfer to make a short stop somewhere without paying a fare to re-board your bus.

It took me about 45 minutes to get downtown from the VW dealer on Havana and the trip was quick and efficient; I also got a good anthropological dig through the social strata of the city.

As I write, I’m in a Starbucks in downtown Denver, on “The Mall,” which is a central street that has free low-emission electric buses running up and down 2 or 3 times a minute.

Starbucks, by the way, is friend of the digital nomad. Although their T-Mobile-provided WiFi is expensive at $6/hour, I have found it ubiquitous and unfailingly reliable. Because there’s a Starbucks just outside the Peer1 colocation facility in lower Manhattan, I can even get WiFi while working on Yankee’s servers. I think this move by Starbucks is brilliant: not only do they sell more beverages to WiFi-drinking customers, but they’re well positioned to grow into a sort of “nomad’s filling station” in the future.

WiFi also has a strong presence in budget hotels here: we’ve stayed in two Hampton Inns and a Fairfield that blanketed their properties with free WiFi. I haven’t had to dial into my “for on the road only” Earthlink account at all for the two weeks I’ve been away, which has been great (and probably means that I will part ways with Earthlink upon my return).

If I can solve the ergonomics issues, and the “traveling companions impatience issues,” fulltime nomadicity appears to be a reasonable goal. I’m not headed towards it, but it’s nice to know it’s a possibility.

Mike is on his way here, so must finish up and prepare for travel home.

I’ve written here before about Martin Rutte, consultant, author, husband of Islander Maida Rogerson, and resident of Santa Fe, New Mexico. When I knew that Mike and I would be passing through the Santa Fe today, I emailed Martin and asked him what we should be sure not to miss. Among his recommendations was a tea house called Maison & Tea, on the art gallery-drenched Canyon Road downtown. It was a good recommendation: a beautiful, open space with truly outstanding staff and a jasmine tea the drinking of which rendered me feeling like I’d been pleasantly hit with a gelatinous brick. The owner, who I met briefly, has plans to show black and white movies outside on the patio, projected against the adobe walls, come summer. Cool.

Our introduction to Santa Fe was rather more Scarboroughesque: the unfortunately traditional miles-long strip with multiple Burger Kings, a mall or two, a power center with the usual big boxes, and innumerable auto dealers. We stayed at a Fairfield Inns halfway up the strip from I-25, which was as you might expect (but for a fantastic innovation in the breakfast room: make your own waffles).

Much of our morning was occupied with various car-related matters, the centerpiece of which was four new hub-caps for Mike’s VW Golf for $24.99 from Pep Boys. The car looks 100% better.

Next we headed into the downtown plaza of the city, which reminded me of many of the towns and villages I visited around El Paso a decade ago: a central open plaza surrounded by low-slung adobe buildings. We had fresh, tasty fajitas from a street vendor, toured many shops and a couple of museums, had a great visit at a store that sells Zuni fetishes, a great lunch at the O’Keeffe Cafe (beside the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum), a blasty tonic at the Longevity Cafe, and then headed north towards Denver.

After the rugged and somewhat mountainous terrain through Hopi and Navajo territory on the way through Arizona and New Mexico towards Santa Fe, we were surprised to, thwack, hit a dead-flat desert from Santa Fe up to the Colorado border. At Raton, NM, this all changed as we headed over the Raton Pass, 1000 feet up, to enter Colorado.

Our dinner, at the Trinidad Diner, up the highway in the small town of Trinidad, almost completely erased the food halo that surrounded us in Santa Fe: the menu consisted almost exclusively of various fried items combined with various other fried items. Mike opted for the “healthy” turkey on a croissant, which turned out to be turkey, bacon, cheese and tomatoes lathered onto a soggy croissant. He might as well have deep fried his head. I didn’t do much better with a hamburger and pencil eraser-like french fries. The iced tea, however, was excellent. The Conoco gas station across the street where I stopped to try and find some sort of purgative tonic to help me get over this meal was, alas, also a Churches Fried Chicken outlet, so the smell of deep fried gack filled its air as well. Needless to say, we high-tailed it out of Trinidad.

As I type, I’m sitting in a Hampton Inns property about 13 miles south of Denver. We’ve got a full day in Denver tomorrow before I fly JetBlue to Boston overnight. Expect muddled grumpiness on Thursday.