Wasn't That A Party?

In September we moved into a new house. It was quite the adventure, selling our old house, buying a new house, the move - all a very long story, and in it's own way a story of fate and dreams that seem meant to be. After we moved in we began to discuss holding a housewarming party - and this is where I must make an admission. I am a reluctant hostess. It is not that I don't love a good party - in fact, I like nothing better. What I find, though, is that being the hostess of such an event causes me distress.

I worry about running out of food and alcohol (this has never happened, incidentally, and we always end up with both to spare). I worry that the guests won't have a good time, that they will be bored and think it's all quite tedious. I worry they will think the food is awful. Frankly, I just worry.

We postponed the party for a couple of months - with our holiday in England and Ireland and work and other commitments it was easy to put it off. We had kept telling people, though, that we would hold it soon and I realized that if we didn't do it quickly calling it a housewarming would be a terrible misnomer, and we would just have to call it "a party for no reason at all". Don't get me wrong - I wanted terribly to hold the party, but my nervous hostess side kept nattering at me. I wondered, too, why we even hold housewarming parties. Do we do it to show off? Perhaps some do, but that's never really been my style. Do we do it to show our friends our new house? Yes, but we could have them over in lower numbers for a nice dinner to do that. Is it just an excuse to have a party? What, really, is a housewarming? Why do we do it at all?

I put all the questions and doubts aside, and we spent two weeks getting ready. We bought a case of champagne (both the good stuff for early in the evening and the plonk for later on when the guests wouldn't know the difference). We invested in champagne flutes. We bought beer, and gin, and Irish whiskey. I made shooter glasses of ice to use when the crowd was sufficiently inebriated to make holding on to a glass made of ice a challenge. I bought food in abundance, sliced strawberries for champagne, and cleaned the house, top to bottom. And then last night we waited for the guests to arrive.

The evening began in my kitchen with a few friends, mostly new ones who we don't know well yet. We shared glasses of champagne, began in on the food, and started conversations. The evening quickly picked up speed as friends continued to arrive, bearing gifts of alcohol and houseplants. There were tours of the house, games of darts in my husband's office, and the telling of stories. At one point the kitchen was so crowded it was almost impossible to move. As the evening wore on the crowd ebbed and flowed as some arrived and some departed, and the stories became more raucous as the champagne disappeared and the Irish whiskey bottle was emptied. The ice glass shooters came out and added to the general chaos as friends clutched them desperately, trying to hang on to the slippery little devils full of liquor.

At midnight the family dog was the first one to give in. I found her curled in her kennel, staring at me, waiting for me to close the door and put her to bed as she was weary of people who smelled funny, were talking oddly, and had begun to sway a bit. At two or so my eleven year old daughter gave up and asked if she could go to bed (honestly, I thought she already had). A little later my husband disappeared and fell asleep in a chair downstairs, exhausted by a busy week at work and an evening of entertaining.

It was now almost 3 am. I was in my kitchen, now a scene of empty champagne flutes, errant crushed strawberries on the floor, and melting ice shooter glasses. There were only a few of us left. There were new friends about whom I knew little but was enjoying learning. There were older friends who I realized I didn't know very well but had begun to see a little more of their soul as the alcohol allowed them to share some deeper parts of themselves. There were a couple of friends who long ago ceased to be friends and had become family - a best friend who has become a sister, and a man who was originally someone my husband met through work but entered our lives just after my father died and thus became like a grandfather to my daughter.

I looked around the kitchen island, and saw not guests, but friends and family. I realized that every single person who had come had enjoyed their evening in our house, and had shared with us their time and their stories. Even more, though, I realized why we hold housewarming parties. It's not to show off, and it's not even to show our friends our houses. It's not just an excuse for a party. It's because until we fill a house with family and friends and laughter and stories it's just a house. It only becomes a home when you have filled it with those people, old and new, who have chosen to spend their time and parts of their lives with you. So, to all my family and friends who came and who drank, who ate and who laughed, who told stories, poured champagne, and fought with ice shooter glasses - thank you. Thank you for helping make a house into a home. You are always, always welcome here, and this song is for you....

Where My Heart Belongs

When I first met London I knew I was in trouble. London is the lover that comes on fast and strong, sweeping you off your feet and dancing you around. It dazzles you with it's brilliance, and it doesn't give you a moment to think. It leaves you breathless, exhausted, drained,numbed...and wanting more and more. It's the lover your friends warn you about. You know that when you cannot take any more, when you have to walk away, it's gone on to dance with another.

When I left London I knew it was my one true love and there would never be another. I knew it would be in my heart forever and that the fire for it would always burn deep and true. I knew it could never be replaced. And I was wrong.

There is another lover in my life - one that seduces slowly and gently, drawing you in gradually until you realize you are completely and hopelessly entangled. It's the lover that even if you are forced to leave you will never be truly free of again. It seeps into your soul and silently takes over your heart. It does this all so carefully that you don't even realize until it's too late how far you've gone. It's the lover that you would return to in a second, the one that will always be in the corner of your mind, the one that pops unbidden into your thoughts and dreams. This lover is, of course, Ireland. Ireland doesn't try to flash with brilliance, and it has no need to dazzle you with bright lights. It is a charmer of subtle character, one that simply sits and waits for you to discover it. It knows that you will love it - it doesn't need to force itself on you. It has no need to show off or convince you that you must have it. Ireland is the lover your friends envy.

When I left Ireland I felt like I left a part of my heart behind. It was inexplicable and quite utterly different from my love affair with London. London left me overwhelmed, and, while continuing to hunger for it, wary of it, too. Ireland renewed my soul and my heart. It healed the wounds London's rough handling had left, softly smoothing them away with green vistas, wild castles, and a gentle spirit. I will no doubt see London again and we will embark on another brief fling of mad and epic proportions. Ireland and I, however, have entered into an affair of depth and complexity of an entirely different nature. Ireland is where my heart belongs. Ireland is where my heart truly sings.

The Most Inspiring Person You've Never Heard Of

In October 2010 my husband was invited to present the opening keynote address at an environmental remediation conference in Banff, Alberta. Now, generally my daughter and I don't accompany my husband to conferences as his time is spent working and attending presentations while we are left to our own devices (which often means far too much time using plastic in the local shops). This conference, however, was different as he was attending as a speaker, not a delegate, and it was being held at the beautiful Banff Springs Hotel, a place at which we stay as often as possible. So, we decided our daughter could miss a couple of days of school, see her dad speak, and enjoy Banff in the fall.

The conference organizers were incredibly gracious hosts and not only invited my daughter and I to attend my husband's keynote address but to also attend all the other speeches and social functions at the conference. My daughter being the only child among hundreds of delegates quickly became the unofficial "delegate princess" and charmed everyone in attendance. The final keynote speaker was someone I'd never heard of but sounded interesting. He was the first person to walk to both the north and south poles, and I assumed he was some sort of extreme adventurer type, probably amusing but likely a superficial sort. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Robert Swan, OBE, is indeed the first person to walk to both poles.When he first took the stage to speak the first thing I noticed is that he's a rather attractive man. Handsome in a rugged sense, with features weathered by a life lived outdoors, Robert's most arresting physical feature is his peculiar grey eyes, stripped of their original colour after a polar walk underneath the hole in the ozone layer. When Robert began to speak, though, what becomes clear is that his attraction lies not in his physical appearance but in his sheer passion.

When Robert was eleven years old he saw a movie about Scott's trek to the South Pole, and was inspired. He decided that some day he would follow in those famous footsteps. As he says this was quite a goal for a young British boy who had never even been camping. While growing up Robert never forgot his dream, and as a very young man he set about the ambitious task of raising $5 million to fund his goal. He purchased a boat named "Southern Quest", recruited volunteers and formed a team for the walk, and set off for Antarctica. They completed the arduous walk and arrived at the South Pole - only to discover that the Southern Quest had just been sunk off the coast of Antarctica. Despite this setback Robert persevered, and his experience at the pole changed him. He subsequently formed a team of individuals from several different nations and undertook a successful walk to the North Pole.

What Robert discovered during these walks was a pristine environment that was already feeling the effects of man. In 2041 the treaty protecting the Antarctic from development expires, and Robert knew that he needed to take what he had learned and find a way to preserve the Antarctic. So, Robert embarked on what he refers to as his 50-year mission to save the Antarctic. This mission has included cleaning up the remnants of a Soviet base in Antarctica (a task of gargantuan proportions), attending several Earth Summits to meet with world leaders, and, most importantly in my mind, several expeditions to Antarctica with young people from countries all over the world. As Robert says he likes to stock his boat with people from Israel and Palestine, from Russia and America, and from all sorts of places traditionally at conflict. The goal is to show them that while we may engage in conflict over our own interests what we should be doing is working together to protect our world. He chooses to inspire people with a positive attitude - one that says that we can effect change, and that we can achieve great things. His motto is that no one has ever been inspired by the negative, and I think that is one of the most self-evident but least understood truths I've ever heard.

Robert's mission encompasses far more than I can explain here. He and his teams have built an e-base in the Antarctic, fuelled entirely by alternative energy sources. He is actively exploring and promoting alternative energy as his belief is that only when we have embraced those sources will places like Antarctica be safe from development. He continues to speak to audiences all over the world as both an enviromental and motivational speaker, and he leads expeditions to Antarctica in order to allow people to see what he is fighting for. And fighting he is - Robert has endured many personal and financial struggles to accomplish all this, including recently losing his own home and living out of a suitcase (one senses this is likely not the first or last time this will happen to him). His passion for what he believes is overwhelming, inspiring, and incredibly courageous.

After Robert finished speaking my daughter and I purchased his book and lined up to have it autographed. When our turn came he was delightful with my eleven-year old daughter and spoke to her as an equal, not as an adult to a child. He was pretty delightful with her mother, too, taking the hand I offered to him in both of his and gazing deeply into my eyes with his mesmerizing grey ones (after about 10 seconds of that I was ready to sign over my bank account AND start packing my bag for the Antarctic). He told me that his true audience is children and young adults as they are the ones who will be making the decisions in 2041, and I told him that he had certainly hit the mark with my daughter - and he had. When we left my daughter was inspired and said that she, too, wanted to make a difference in the world. Robert had shown her that even a dream found at the age of eleven can be lived, and can become much more than one ever imagined.

There is no doubt that Robert Swan is an amazing person. He deserves far greater fame than he has achieved, and I hope to some day arrange to bring him to my city to speak because his message should be out there far wider than it is. This blog entry is just another attempt to bring him some of the exposure he deserves, and to bring attention to his mission - because if anyone can do it, Robert can.

"The greatest threat to our planet is the belief that someone else will save it."

Robert Swan, OBE

Robert Swan's 2041 Website

This video is promotional for Robert's motivational speeches, but gives you a sense of what kind of passion he inspires:

This video is a promotional piece for Robert's book:

And this final video has nothing to do with Robert, but has Antarctica in the title, I like it, and Men Without Hats and I go back a long way (but that's another story for another day!):

How's The Crack?

One of the things you notice almost immediately in Ireland is that the Gaelic language is not dead. It's on the road signs, in the newspapers, and occasionally spoken. As often happens when two languages collide certain words become part of the lexicon of the other, and there is one Gaelic word in Ireland that stands out. The word is "craic", and it's pronounced "crack".

Craic is an amazingly useful word. Generally speaking it means fun or a good time, so you can say that an event was "good craic". It's also used in sentences such as "How's the craic?" , meaning "How are things?", or even "What's new?". For a word-lover like me this word is a treasure trove. It's an astonishingly useful word, and one we are sadly lacking in Canada. I'd love to see it incorporated in our slang as it could only enrich our language. There is a problem with this fine word, though.

While in a pub in Dublin an Irish friend was speaking to another man who told him that he "enjoys the craic". This is pronounced, of course, "enjoys the crack". My friend commented that this could easily be misunderstood (while telling me this story he asked if I knew what craic meant, and when I said I did he seemed skeptical - but when you see the word in the paper and on the side of every bloody bus eventually you look the damn thing up!). I think you're starting to see the issue with this word.

Can you imagine trying to use this word in Canada where it has no historical or cultural basis? Saying "That was some mighty fine craic last night!" would likely to lead to pointed questions at least, and possibly a visit from the RCMP. I'd certainly advise against shouting out "Who's up for some craic?" in a crowded Canadian bar. I could go on with different scenarios (and if I was in Ireland probably would, where baa-d jokes about sheep can last for days), but you get the idea. Sadly it seems use of this word could only lead to confusion and in some cases absolute mayhem, which is a shame.

I've become pretty attached to this word and the concept behind it. I'd love to use it on a more regular basis but unless I explained it to every person who may overhear I would do so at the risk to my own reputation. So while it may not become part of my spoken repertoire I'll likely use it more often when I write. It's just that good a word, and one I'm not willing to let get away.

I learned other Gaelic words, of course, like "taoiseach" and "slainte" but neither of these is as useful or charming as craic. Slainte is pretty handy, I guess, although it's of pretty limited use (I have to wonder if it's any coincidence that many Gaelic words are most useful when drinking).

I suppose it's just that craic sums up my recent journey to the Emerald Isle. Ireland, I would say, has some damn fine craic, and if you haven't been there to partake in the local craic you should consider it. Now go out and say that last sentence out loud at the bar and see what happens!

My Life As A Criminal

When I was 18 a friend gave me a jacket. My friend had been serving in the Canadian Armed Forces and had grown extremely disillusioned with the entire environment. He said he could see no better use for his jacket than to give it to his young punk friend, and so it came to me. It was a Corporal's jacket, I believe, complete with stripes and other decoration. I was, of course, quite delighted - what a unique piece to own!

The weekend after he gave me the jacket I went to a local restaurant with my boyfriend and his best friend. We were dressed in our punk finest, of course - me with a miniskirt, fishnets, heels, and hair teased up high. We arrived at the restaurant and on our way to the table I saw someone I'd known in high school and a couple of his friends. They looked at my jacket and sneered "Nice jacket". I said thank you and continued to our table. I noticed them shooting me dark stares throughout the meal but I assumed it was due to the attire of my friends and I - being some of the few punks in the city this was a pretty common reaction.

After we finished the meal we exited the restaurant, and standing outside were the three young men who had been glaring at me. Also there was a police cruiser with two officers. What happened next was entirely unexpected, of course. One officer exited the car and asked to speak with me. The other officer, sizing up my companions, suggested to the other young men that they leave as what happened next could likely lead to them being followed home and having the snot beaten out of them by a gang of young punks. You see, what happened next was that I was arrested for unlawful use of a military uniform and impersonating a military officer. When the officer explained the charges I began to cry. He looked at his partner and said "I feel like a complete jerk". He then told me that if it was up to him he would just ask me to remove the jacket, but that because the young men had complained (they were Army cadets, apparently) and wanted me charged he had no choice. He took my jacket as it would be held in evidence, and he said I could pick it up after my court date. He wrote up the summons, explaining that I would need to appear in court and might want to find a lawyer. I was aghast at the whole affair.

When I got home that night I decided against telling my parents. I was eighteen, and an adult, so there was no legal requirement to tell them. I'd also already put these people through a lot. I was the person who brought home entire punk bands, often sweaty, smelly, and foul-mouthed, and expected my mother to feed them (bless her German heart, she always did). I'd had a boyfriend who drove an old hearse. When I dyed my hair pink, black, and blue my father hadn't spoken for a week (initially I thought he just didn't speak to me until my sister later explained he didn't speak to anyone for a week - I had traumatized the poor man). I'd had parties when my parents were away that ended with all the screens on the windows being removed and several men's t-shirts in the freezer (and no, I still have no idea why those things happened, but I do recall trying to explain to my father why he found all the screens off when he returned, and to my mother why there were soiled t-shirts in the freezer). My parents had already raised my four sisters but I think they'd started to think I was a horse of a different colour entirely, and I was worried this latest stunt might well break them.

So, I called my eldest sister who was a practicing lawyer in another city. She advised me to contact a friend she had graduated with and see if he would represent me. I called him and after explaining I'd been arrested for impersonating a military officer while wearing a fishnet and heels he agreed to take the case (after all, how many times in one's legal career does a case like that cross your desk?).

I was quite anxious as my court date approached. My parents still knew absolutely nothing of all this, and I intended to keep it that way. On the day I went to court I tried to appear as demure and responsible as possible. My lawyer was actually quite disappointed I didn't wear the heels, fishnets, and miniskirt to court that day, although I'm not sure how that would have helped our case. I suspect he just wanted to see the judge's reaction. In the end I was granted a conditional discharge, which required me to spend 4 hours doing community service at the local Salvation Army (hardly punishment for me - I believe I came home that day with two bags of clothing as I loved vintage stuff and this was like being able to jump the queue to get to the good stuff!). My lawyer charged me $85 for his services, I believe, and had a story to tell at cocktail parties for years.

After the court date I wanted to forget the whole thing. I had no intention of picking up the damn jacket - it could rot as far as I cared. One night a few weeks later, though, the doorbell of our suburban house rang as my mother, father, and I sat down for supper. My father went to answer it, and when he returned he glared at me. He informed that there was a police cruiser in the driveway, and an officer asking to speak to me. I believe I stopped breathing at that point, but finally collected myself and went to the door, trailed by my parents. Realizing this could end very badly I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. The officer was the same one who had arrested me. Due to my distress during the arrest I hadn't noticed that the officer was quite young, perhaps in his early twenties, and quite a handsome blonde man. He had in his hand my army jacket, neatly wrapped in plastic.

He looked at me and said "I noticed after your court date that you didn't pick up your jacket, so I thought I'd bring it to you". He handed it to me, hesitated, and then said "Oh, and I'm wondering if I could take you out to dinner sometime?". I politely declined as I had a steady boyfriend, but thanked him for both the offer and delivering my jacket. As he drove away I drew in a deep breath and tried to figure out how I was going to spin this one for my parents.

I went into the house and they looked at me questioningly. I explained that I'd left my jacket at a local nightclub and the officer had been kind enough to return it, and I went to my room. I can't imagine they bought that story, but they didn't question it, either. Perhaps they were too scared to ask.

Some months later a new friend told me his father worked with cadets at the local army facility. I told him the story of the jacket, and when he told his father he was appalled. He said any true army man would have just explained why I shouldn't wear the jacket, and that he was going to ensure that those particular cadets ended up doing some extra grunt work as "payment" for their attempt at public relations.

I lost that jacket many years ago during a move, and never missed it really. I lost both my parents, too, and they died never knowing this story. I realize now that I could have told them - I doubt they would have even been surprised. I imagine they would have been disappointed, but I know that in time we would have laughed about it, like we did about the hair and the parties. I wish I would have told them that police officers don't deliver jackets left in nightclubs, and that their daughter never meant to hurt them with her shenanigans. I think they knew that last part, though - they loved me unconditionally all their lives, and I suspect they would have loved me even despite my criminal transgression.

I have a young daughter now. I hope she doesn't repeat my mistakes. I hope she knows that she can tell me everything - even if she's ever arrested for impersonating a military officer while in fishnets and heels. I'll still love her, I'll get her a lawyer - and I'll tell her to wear her fishnets and heels to court, too.

The Union Jack and I

When I was12 my family bought a new house, and I transferred to a new school. This was a very difficult transition for me. The kids at my old school were very much still children - we played at recess and climbed on the playground equipment. The kids at the new school were terribly sophisticated in comparison - they had begun dating and at recess were holding hands, not playing tetherball. I was hopelessly out of my depth, and desperately unhappy. There was only one saving grace at this new school - and his name was David.

David was in Grade 7 and I was in Grade 6. I thought he was the most perfect thing I'd ever known. He had sandy blonde hair. He played soccer. He had an unusual accent. And David was British. David's family had immigrated to Canada and had embraced the Canadian lifestyle but there was no hiding their British roots. I fell quite madly in love with David (as only a 12 year old can), but sadly it seemed these feelings were not returned. However, I decided that while I may not be able to have David, I could always have Britain.

I began to read everything I could about Britain. I read British history and became enchanted by the Tudors. Henry VIII was the perfect fool for love, while his daughter, Elizabeth I, was the exact opposite. I read about the Wars of the Roses, I read about the city of London, I read everything I could get my hands on. I started drinking tea whenever I could. I embraced all that was British - and I fell in love with the Union Jack. Something about that flag always made me smile, no matter how miserable my day.

In high school the Union Jack and I spent even more time together (although we went to the same high school David and I did not spend more time together, to my sorrow). When I was about 15 I heard the Sex Pistols for the first time, and Britain become even more deeply entrenched in me. I rapidly became all about the music and the bands and the culture. I embraced all that was punk and loud and, well, British. Punk made me realize I didn't have to be the prairie city girl wearing a rabbit fur jacket and mukluks - I could be different. I could be unique. The Union Jack was on my album covers, on my clothing, and on my mind.

By the time university rolled around David and I had become friends and we actually spent a fair bit of time together. My feelings for David had begun to cool, but I still carried that love for the Union Jack. When I met the man who eventually became my husband I was delighted when I was in his basement bedroom and hanging from his wall was a giant Union Jack. It seemed prophetic, as if the Union Jack was the sign I needed to know this man was the one for me.

For many years I carried that feeling about the Union Jack - never stated, just there, under the surface. I got married, moved all over the country, had a daughter...went about life. That love of all things British never went away, really, it just simmered. My path crossed David's occasionally, but we were no longer friends, and eventually we lost touch, as you do when you are going about your life.

A few years ago David and I reconnected through the wonder that is Facebook. I was now happily married with a young child and he was happily married with a new hobby farm just outside the city we had grown up in. We chatted about our current lives, and about the past. Turns out that during many of those years when I was secretly in love with David he'd been secretly in love with me (and there, my friends, is how our lives spin on the thin edge of a dime - had either of us voiced our feelings back then what would it have changed?). I thanked David for introducing me to the Union Jack. If it hadn't been for him I would have never discovered that I love British history, never found punk, and probably never become the person I have. It was all due to the unrequited love of a 12 year old for a British boy.

I recently reconnected with the Union Jack, too. When we moved into our new house I was unpacking a very old box and found my husband's Union Jack. My daughter spied it and asked if she could hang it in her room - how could I say no? It was almost like watching myself at the same age suddenly discovering that flag. Even more recently we travelled to London for the first time, and I was able to immerse myself in the culture and place I'd loved from afar for so long. While in London I found a handbag from Aspinal of London made of beautiful patent leather. It is, of course, loudly decorated with the Union Jack. I now carry my Union Jack on the outside, where everyone can see it, as well as hidden deep inside me.

I lost touch with David shortly after we reconnected. I think we both needed to finally reveal that secret to each other, and that is why we needed to reconnect. Once we had revealed it we knew that we each shared the same fond place in each other's memories, and we just kept on going with our lives. I think the Union Jack and I, though, will have a much closer lifelong connection. Every time I look at the flag on my daughter's wall I think of myself, almost exactly her age, discovering that the world was a far larger place than I'd ever realized and knowing I'd only seen a glimpse of it. Every time I see my Union Jack handbag I smile and think of that young adult who discovered punk and realized that the world around me just kept growing as I kept changing. I see the Union Jack and I think of how a single image can become tied to so many memories.

It's hard to believe a flag could have such a profound impact on one's life, isn't it? But sometimes we can't predict the things that will impact us the most or that we will carry with us the longest. It can be a person, a place...or even a flag.

On English Butlers and Irish Chauffeurs

When my husband and I started to plan our recent holiday in London and Ireland there were decisions to be made, of course. Where to stay in London was easy - years ago I had read about the Savoy Hotel and been so entranced by it's glamorous history that I knew I had to stay there on my first visit to the city. This meant a delay in our holiday plans as the Savoy has recently undergone a massive renovation, and was closed for some time. When it re-opened for bookings, though, my husband immediately started the process of finding a room. We settled on a small suite, and he informed me that all the suites came with butler service. Butler service? What the hell was I going to do with a butler? Have them hang out and open the door for room service and housekeeping? I was bemused by the idea of a butler, but figured everything in life should be tried at least once. A butler it would be.

When we looked into booking our trip in Ireland we knew we didn't want a tour group. Neither of us has the patience for a "be here at this time, look at this, now move on" atmosphere on holiday. We do things at our pace, things that interest us, and any tour group would frustrate this desire. We also knew, though, that we didn't want to rent a car and spend our holiday studying maps, getting lost, and contending with unknown roads. So, my husband found a chauffeur company online that not only provides drivers but would book hotels and suggest activities. Chauffeur? At first glance this didn't sound any better than the whole butler thing. What if we got stuck in a car for several days with someone we couldn't stand? What if they were a bore? What if they were annoying? But, it seemed the only solution, and the chauffeur company impressed us with the assistance they provided in booking our holiday, so we were optimistic about the chauffeur, if a little cautiously so.

When we arrived at the Savoy we met the butlers. Nice young people, men and women both, but I never did quite figure out their role. They appeared at our door at least twice daily to offer their services and I began to wonder if they worked on commission. When one admonished us for not using the butlers enough I began to really wonder about the commission idea. Now, they did do many things - they provided the room service, and found me scissors when I needed to wrap gifts (scissors presented on a small silver tray, of course). When I left our laundry on the floor with the laundry bags and order forms on top (meaning to get to it when I returned later) they helpfully packed it off and had it done. And they discovered we enjoyed tea so teas and the means to make it appeared daily in our room. This was all quite lovely but still seemed, well, unnecessary. When we were leaving they offered to pack our luggage, and while some might jump at that chance I declined. My husband of many years has never packed my lingerie, and a 22-year old man in a morning coat and top hat wasn't going to do it, either. I was really never comfortable with the butlers - in Canadian culture having "servants" just isn't common. My first instinct was to try to befriend them, take them out for a drink, or sit down with them for tea - but that's not the role of the butler, and the institution is far too stuffy and starchy for that.

So, we left the Savoy, and overall we had a glorious stay. We flew off to Shannon, Ireland, where we would meet our chauffeur. After the butler experience I had some trepidations - what if the chauffeur turned out to be like the butlers? It would be a very long few days in a van indeed.

We arrived on Aer Lingus in Shannon, and there to meet us was Kevin from Ireland Chauffeur Travel. Kevin immediately seemed like a fatherly sort - kind, soft-spoken, and gentle. My trepidations began to melt away, but this was early still and who knew if perhaps this first impression was incorrect?

By the end of day one when Kevin dropped us at our hotel in Limerick I knew it would be fine. He was a gregarious man, but not obnoxious. He had spent time in Canada as a young man, so he knew a bit about Canada, enough to make us feel more at ease. What was really clear was that he knew Ireland - the history, the roads, the people. Kevin was like a walking Irish guidebook with audio in that lovely lilting accent.

By the end of day two we had begun to solve world problems. We had lots of time to discuss issues as, while Ireland is a small country, there is no such thing as a straight road, and they have a mind-boggling fondness for round-a-bouts. All this driving meant we could dissect many world issues, such as what was wrong with North America (a sense of invincibility that after 9/11 and financial crises had turned into a sense of utter vulnerability), and why Canada survived the financial crisis better than the USA (Canadian bankers made "just say no" their motto). By day three we had pretty much solved world problems and the conversation was heading into stories of our families and personal anecdotes.

One of our stops on our holiday was at the B&B Kevin and his wife own in Cashel. By that time we had begun to feel less and less like guests and more like friends. This was confirmed when we met Rory, the family Irish Setter that my daughter adored, and Kevin's lovely wife (my husband and daughter keep asking me when I will become as nice a woman as Beatrice - the answer is likely never). We even spent an evening at their local pub in Cashel, joined by Kevin and his son Shane, the charming managing director of the chauffeur company (I know the word charming keeps coming up when I describe Irish men - if I could find an adjective that better described them I would use it, but there isn't one, trust me!). By the time we left Cashel we knew we were onto something very special in Ireland.

The rest of our time in the van was spent discussing the merits of Irish hurling versus Canadian ice hockey (if you don't know what hurling is, look it up - you'll be amazed), singing more songs, discussing why men (mostly Irish, apparently) lose all common sense when they fall in love, family vendettas and fights, Irish race horses, why dogs are better than cats, and every topic of which you can possibly conceive. Any trepidation I had ever felt about using a chauffeur was gone. Chauffeur? What chauffeur? Kevin was our friend, and pretty damn close to family. My daughter in fact began to refer to him as Uncle Kevin and, already having begun planning a post-graduation backpacking trip in Europe, was joking with him about her future "Uncle Kevin, I'm stuck in a pub in Donegall with no money" rescue phone call.

So, there you go. I never did, and never will, embrace the whole butler thing. It's foreign to my existence, awkward, and uncomfortable. If you really are dying to try having servants then I recommend a stay at the Savoy and giving the butlers a whirl. If you want to really have a bloody marvelous time, though, go to Ireland and hire a chauffeur. You might start with a "chauffeur" but by the end you have a new friend, and really isn't that part of what travelling is all about?

http://www.irelandchauffeurtravel.com/