So my boyfriend, Mark, was driving us to East Caledon to cycle the Caledon Trailway. Let me say right here, I’m no Lance Armstrong. I’m not even Lance Armstrong’s left arm. I’ve cycled twice in the last 7 months. Once was Friday – we cycled Toronto’s Leslie Spit, and the second time was Saturday when we cycled the Beltline.

But it was a gorgeous Sunday and we wanted to try something in the country, so Mark came up with the idea of the Caledon Trailway, about 40 minutes north of Toronto.

The purdy Caledon Trailway

While we were driving, we were discussing my mother, artist Dorothy Knowles, and her upcoming art show at the McMichael Canadian Art Collection in Kleinberg, Ontario. Both my sisters and my mom will be coming down for the opening so Mark has been co-opted into driving us from Toronto to Kleinberg … if we can all fit into his gently-faded Saab.

“My sisters and I can fit into the back seat,” I said brightly. “We’re tiny.”

“Well, you’re not,” Mark said.

Major pause while I shot poisonous eye-darts at him. “Have you learned nothing in two years of dating?” I asked.

“I just meant that you’re tall,” he backpedalled quickly. “Your legs might get cramped.”

Really, not the best way to start our cycling trip.

Not my best look but I can still fit into a car!

Then we stopped at a cafe enroute for burgers. The woman who took our order seemed harassed. “What do you want on your burgers?” she asked.

“The works,” said Mark.

“Mayo, mustard and any vegetably thing you have,” I said. Small pause while woman shot eye-daggers at me and rolled her eyes. Really, I was just trying to save her some time.  ”Tomaaato,” I said slowly. “Lettuuuce and Oniooons.”

“Pickle?”

“Okay.”

“You seem to be having a busy day,” Mark said to her.

“It’s been hard,” she said. “One of the staff just walked off. She said she was having a bad feeling and left.”

“Ohhh,” I said, making sympathy noises and remembering that I should be a kinder person. She wasn’t being rude, she was having a bad day. I can learn something from this, I thought, heading outside to sit on the patio. I should be more like Mark.

15 mintues later I headed back in, wondering where the burgers were. The woman ignored me, but a nice man with a cook’s apron said, “They’re not average burgers. They’re the size of a shoe! They take some time to cook. I’ll bring them out when they’re done.”

“Okay.” I sat happily on the patio, then Mark eventually got up. “I’m going to see where the burgers are.”

“The man said he’d bring them out.”

“I’ll just go see.”

“Okay.” Mark went off and I started daydreaming about the glorious days of upcoming summer. Vaguely in the background I heard, “Cheeseburger? Cheeseburger?” but I knew Mark was inside so I ignored it.

“CHEESEBURGER?”

“Oh! Right! That’s me!” I sat up and saw the woman holding two platters.

“Can you come and GET IT PLEASE?” she said in that tone of voice that tells you have done something very wrong, like not cleaned your room when you are ten years old.

“Yes, I can,” I said. Just as soon as I put my shoes back on. I collected the platters just as Mark came sauntering back. “I thought you were getting the burgers.”

“I was, but they weren’t ready so I was talking to two cyclists who’ve ridden the Caledon Trail. You can go either way from Caledon East but they said that the west direction is the most scenic. The trail goes up an elevated bridge so you can look out over the highway. And there’s good ice cream in Inglewood.”

Sounded good to me. After the burgers, after locating the trail head and getting our bikes out of the car (really, if we can fit two bikes into the back of the Saab you wouldn’t think I’d be too big to fit in) we hit the trail. It’s  a gorgeous Rails-to-Trails (railway lines that have been converted to trails) track that passes fields, streams and beaver dams. After about 7 km, I finally thought to ask: “How far is Inglewood?”

Are we there yet?

“About 7 km,” Mark says.

“So we’re almost there?”

No, about 7 km past that sign we saw awhile ago. Maybe another 3.”

“So we’ve only gone a third of the way?”

“But it has ice cream.”

“I don’t think I can make it.” Normally I think I could have made it, but I’d borrowed one of those bikes with low handles bars and it was straining my back.

“Well, we’ll stop at the next intersection and you can see how you feel,” Mark said.

Yah, right. I'm walking it up

And at the next intersection he told me we were almost there, and then that there were some buildings in the distance so we must have arrived, and I can’t remember all his reasons why I simply must continue on, but somehow I was talked into continuing on all the way to Inglewood.

And then we got to Inglewood and the store was closed. “Why didn’t that woman tell you the store closed at 4?” I said. “I’ll tell you why, because early bird people never have this problem!” I mean, I’m all for outdoor experiences, I really am, but it was a long way to go for no ice cream.

I would have said more, but I was too tired. Even my fingers were sore from trying to ride with my finger tips on the handlebars so that I could straighten up my back. Ten minutes after turning around we came over a wooden bridge that crossed a stream.

“Here we go,” I said. We went down to the bank, laid out a blanket and collapsed. The sun was warm, the late afternoon shadows brought out the colours of the red bushes and green stream and frogs were conducting an off-tune punk rock jamboree.

Now this was more like it. “I wish tomorrow were a holiday, too,” I said, lying flat with my arms out.

“I know,” Mark said. “We need a day just to laze around.”

Now this is more like it

“No,” I said. ”I was thinking it would be nice to come back tomorrow and do the trail the other way.”

While not every New Year’s Eve I’ve spent in Toronto has been a disaster, they have been, er, memorable. There was the night at the El Mocambo when the band didn’t bother with a countdown and the big moment passed with a whimper. 

And then a couple of years ago, there was that special night listening to a Led Zepplin tribute band at Jeff Healey’s Roadhouse with a friend and her husband because my friend wanted to relive her rocker roots. Try being solo on New Year’s Eve with a couple – that’s really fun at the midnight kissing hour. Last year, mercifully, I was in Montreal consorting with the glam (though young) crowd at Koko, the Asian fusion resto in the Opus Hotel, but this year – sigh – it’s once again the big TO, and it promises to be possibly the weirdest night ever because – wait for it – I’m going to a singles dance with a date.

Going to a singles dance as a couple is kind of like moving into a retirement home when you’re 40 so that you can feel really young. And while we’re not that desperate to boost our self esteem (or are we?) there are reasons for our madness.

1) It’s a chance to dress up and that’s really all I care about. Will it be the sparkly silver dress with silver platform shoes or the black sequined top and short flouncy skirt with a studded black bracelets. Oh, the joy of it!

2) It’s cheaper than doing a couply romantic dinner – and, since we’ve just had a couply romantic dinner on my birthday at Amuse Bouche and two family Christmas dinners (his family, not mine), I think we’re in the mood for something less slow paced.

3) We’re going with a pile of friends (his friends, not mine – do I even have a life?) who all happen to be single. My friends, single or not, avoid events like this like the plague, I mean like the Swine Flu, though I did really try to convince them to come.

4) There’s a grand prize draw for an all expense paid adventure vacation. Interesting the advert doesn’t say where. It could be anything … Litter climbing at the dump! Night subway crawling! Darting into the path of oncoming trains! The imagination runs wild.

4) It’s really really funny! Who does that? Who goes to a singles dance on a date? Will the matchmaking police catch us holding hands and kick us out? I have my story ready … no really, officers, I was single when I came in, I just picked him up at the coat check.

The cons:

1) We could be setting ourselves up for a fight. What are you doing talking to those girls? What do you think you are, single?

2) I can’t even imagine the crowd … it’s a bit scary. But maybe singles dances are way hipper than I realize.

3) I’d say the midnight champagne is going to be crap and I want Krug! Can I smuggle in some Veuve along with a date?

Is it a castle? A villa? No, it's a Canadian spa!

While I’m having my Aveda Botannical Resurfacing Facial at Ste Anne’s, various thoughts are flitting through my mind, like: For a petite young thing, this therapist has seriously strong fingers. This is a really hard facial massage. Is my skin going to rub off? Is this good for me? 

At the same time I was pestering the therapist with questions. “Why is this facial popular? What are you putting on now? Is that the toner?” It’s hard for a spa writer to turn off and simply enjoy a facial. Especially when it’s a more, how shall I say, vigorous treatment than I’m used to.

And then I wanted to know what exactly was in the product. She’d already explained that the key ingredient is touramaline. “Isn’t that a semi-precious stone?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

“Why is it good for you?”

“It’s full of antioxidents.”

That shut me up for awhile. Then I said, “How can a semi-precious stone be full of antioxidents?” Is it crushed up? How do the antioxidents get into your skin?

“Well, it’s a mineral,” she said.

In fact tourmaline is a crystal silicate mineral containing a variety of elements like aluminium, iron, magnesium, iron magnesium, sodium, lithium and/or potassium. It’s also a gemstone that comes in many colours, and according to Egyptian mythology, during its journey from the depths of the earth it passed through a rainbow, soaking in the colours. Just so you know.

“My skin is really sensitive,” I said, as she started to rub a gum-like substance over my skin. Forcefully. “I’ve been burned with hot stones and had my skin rubbed raw at a Hammam (a Turkish-style mud scrub). How do you know when to stop rubbing?”

She took it all in with good grace. And then, I finally shut up for good and let the Zen Zone tranquility of the spa overtake my anxieties. The thing is, you can’t control every minute of a a spa treatment once you’re in a therapist’s hands. At some point you need to let go and trust that she (or he)  knows what she’s doing. Which is why it’s important to choose your spa wisely. You can’t always choose your therapist, but you can pick a reputable spa. And when it comes to reputation, Ste Anne’s in Northumberland Country, just an hour and a half from Toronto, is perhaps Canada’s top. (Though I’d say the Wickinnanish Inn in Tofino, BC, comes close.)

Everybody spa!

For one thing, it’s a total destination spa, which means that the purpose of Ste Anne’s is to spa. Everyone spas. Everyone walks around in their robes, even at meals. Though I did dress up  for dinner … unlike the woman who was in her red pajamas at lunch. Even if you weren’t spa-ing, Ste Anne’s would be a nice place to hang out. A sprawling stone building, it looks like a castle. Plus, the meals, which are included in the package, are surprisingly haute.

Once I was finished  my facial I was happy to note that no skin came off – except for those pesky dead skin cells and good riddance to them – and my face felt super smooth. Way more smooth than I’m used to. “Feel my cheeks! Feel them again!” I kept saying to my boyfriend, who had sprung for the overnight getaway as a birthday present.

My bliss - but why is a fish spitting on my shoulder?

Is that why I lost him soon after to the depths of the men’s changing room sauna? He could only hide for so long. Finally he resurfaced and we spent the rest of the stay going back and forth between the outdoor hot pool, the eucalyptus steam room, the cool plunge (I would have liked colder, as I’m sick like that and I do believe that hot cold hydrotherapy boosts energy and possibly even immunity) and finally, I waded into the small current pool where I pretended to exercise.

An icy plunge. It's good for you. No, really.

I also did a stretch class, because I thought I should do something active yet a stretch class sounded relatively easy. All group classes are included in your package, whether it’s a day trip or overnight.

And then it was back to the hot pool, a small rock pool with a cupid-holding-fish statue in one corner. To me this is bliss. There is nothing like sitting and soaking with steam rising off the water and the contrast of cool winter air on your face. And, since all the water at the resort is natural spring water surely it’s depositing good things into your skin. Well, along with chlorine I guess, but still.

Ste Anne’s isn’t cheap but it’s grand for a splurge. One thing to note is that tipping is not necessary, which shaves 10-20% percent off your treatments. And it’s BYOB, so you won’t run up that wine bill. For the best deal, check out their specials and last minute deals. Finally, be prepared to wish you’d booked for one more day, because it’s addictive. It really is.

I’m just back from the Bahamas, and from pirate loot to unexplored cave systems, Grand Bahama is a grand island indeed. I may not be tanned but at least I ended up with plenty to write about.

Now I have to go from beach mode to art mode and I have to do it fast. My brother-in-law, Graham Fowler, is having an art opening at Gevick Gallery in Toronto’s chi chi Yorkville this afternoon at 12 Hazelton Avenue.

That man can really paint!

Last time I went to one of his art exhibits it was in London, England, on the posh gallery row of Cork Street where he had a two-person show with my sister, Catherine. It was a different party in the gallery every night for four evenings running. Why don’t they do that here?

Although at times it might have got carried away. I remember one night when the art dealer who organized the exhibition had to toss out one scraggley Brit found crouched behind the catering table chugging straight from a bottle of champagne. At least I know enough to drink my champagne from a plastic glass.

Ah, the Wilderness .. rejuvenating or dangerous?

Just how risky is it to go off on your own? I wrote about hiking alone a few weeks back after walking in the wilds of northern Saskatchewan. I wrote about being scared of bears, of human predators, and, well, mosquitoes are annoying, too. But I never could have predicted the tragic attack on a budding young musician, Taylor Mitchell,  who was killed by coyotes when hiking alone in Cape Breton Highlands National Park in Nova Scotia a couple of days ago. She, like many of us, probably loved walking alone. It seems like a much more direct experience with nature. When I’m with someone and we’re talking I tend to forget my surroundings. Conversation drowns out those wonderful sounds of crows, frogs, robins, rustling leaves and water running through streams. When it’s just me, it’s a dialogue between me and the forest (or the mountains, or field, or whatever) and something is lost when I’m in company.

When I think of all the places I’ve hiked alone in the last few months – the Grand Canyon; the hills around Montegrotto, Italy; Waskesui in Saskatchewan and along the riverbank in Saskatoon –  it makes me wonder if I was pushing my luck. Is the joy of solo wandering worth it? Then again, when I was travelled down the Yukon River this summer on a river boat, we kept passing a blond nordic-looking woman.

Braver than I'll ever be

She was kayaking alone, her strokes were steady and she quite often pulled past us as we meandered down the river in our motorized boat. She must have been camping alone at night, and the Yukon is serious wilderness. She is braver (and far more fit) than I’ll ever be, but I have to say, I was envious of her strength and determination. That’s a dialogue with nature I’ll never get to have. Then again, neither will lovely talented Taylor. On behalf of single hikers everywhere, our thoughts are with you.

Private Dock

This Saturday my sister, Chicago-based artist Rebecca Perehudoff, is having an art opening at The Gallery/Art Placement Inc. in Saskatoon. Unfortunately I won’t be there, but she’ll be at the opening and you can see the work here.  

The paintings were inspired by the wild moody area around Emma Lake in northern Saskatchewan where I spent a good part of my summers growing up. It’s a magnet for artists because of the Emma Lake Art Camp (now called the Kenderdine Campus). A lot of British and New York artists made there way up there, including composer John Cage who got lost in the muskeg overnight and had to pick wild mushrooms to eat. Once he was rescued he fried up the rest and fed them to the resident artists. Luckily he just happened to be a mushroom expert so no one got poisoned.

One of my earliest memories there is being involved in a Happening – which was a forerunner to performance art. It was dark. I was six, and my sister Catherine and I, along with some other local kids, were conscripted to dress up in sheets, climb onto the back of a truck and feed people peach slices out of baggies. There was also a dancing naked woman covered in gold paint – I vaguely recall that the paint wouldn’t come off and that a bunch of women had to scrub her down in the communal bathroom. Good clean fun!

I hear that the art workshops are a lot tamer now - and that Happenings are happening no more – but for the artists who venture there,  it’s just as inspiring.

The snow has chased me out of Saskatchewan (actually, I was leaving anyway) but a trip to my hometown of Saskatoon would not be complete without mentioning the mural controversy.

Save Me!

In the 50′s, my father, artist William Perehudoff, painted some frescoes in the executive suite of the old Intercontinental Packers building. (As an aside, my mother, artist Dorothy Knowles, who was extremely pregnant with my oldest sister, Rebecca, at the time, was there handing him the paints while he was up on a ladder working on the top part of the murals.) But all good things come to an end – the building is going to be torn down for a freeway and the murals were going to be demolished.

We'd better get outta here fast!

The murals are one of the last remaining examples of purist art in Canada (my dad studied with Amedee Ozenfant in New York, co-founder, along with Le Corbusier, of the Purist School), so it was goodbye to a small piece of history – until a group of devoted save-the-muralists campaigned to stop the destruction and the crazy thing is … it looks as if worked.

The murals will be saved!

Hooray for the little people.

So, from the Perehudoff family to the campaigners … thanks. And thanks to the City of Saskatoon and Maple Leaf Foods who kicked in big bucks.

I've been here 50 years!

(To read more about the murals, the Mendel Art Gallery has a blog about it.)

A hip and groovy office

I'm moving to Hawaii

Snow? In October? What the …? I’m just thinking about a walk on the  Meewasin Trail - Saskatoon’s gorgeous path along the South Saskatchewan River when I look out the window and thick fat flakes of snow are flying everywhere. This is just not right. What’s the llama going to do? What am I going to do?

Only 8 more months of this!

I’m going to start writing about the Caribbean that’s what. Or Mexico, Burma, Thailand, Columbia … please someone, send me somewhere warm!

Llama on the Lam

Ha ha ha ha. The llama is still in our field and this time I got his picture. (Her picture?) I think he thinks this hay bale is his mother. At least the bale is good to block the wind because it was freezing out there today. What’s the llama going to do in the winter? Are they indoor pets?

That's a good-looking llama!

There was also a trio of eagles flying over the river. No dead mice though. Yay!