Band on the Run: No Silver Spoon, Just Stainless Steel Please!

Ember Swift, Canadian musician and touring performer, will be keeping us up-to-date on what it’s like to tour a band throughout North America. Having just arrived back from Beijing where she spent three months (check out her “Canadian in Beijing” series), she offers a musician’s perspective on road life. Enjoy!

My roommate Elaine is awesome. She’s from Calgary, AB and a friend of my sister’s who also came to this wedding on her own. She and I are sharing a room because these rooms are unbelievably overpriced, as is the way with most resorts. We also know each other from the number of times that my band and I have passed through Calgary on tour across Western Canada (and she’s been a great support of my music for several years) so, at least we had a bit of background before we had to share this space for several days.

Elaine has these big blue eyes the colour of the ocean and a bright wide smile. She is one of those people who has no problem being blunt and direct – telling it like it is – and she has been amazing to spend time with here. She makes me laugh regularly. I had forgotten how funny she is and the extra flash of entertainment has made the world of difference to me here.

Having a bit of company (who I’m not related to) hasn’t hurt either.

This morning, I called up room service to request a spoon. I had been grocery shopping yesterday to offset the price of food (and absence of vegan options) and so I wanted to eat my cereal here in my room, just quietly bringing in the day with the ocean (and Elaine) as my witness. Lo and behold, there was no cutlery in the room and so I called room service and requested they bring me up a spoon to use.

The guy arrived a few minutes later with a paper napkin wrapped around four plastic spoons.

I took the spoons without a comment and the guy left, but Elaine took one look at the spoons when I had unwrapped them and said “Oh no. That’s insulting. What are we in prison here? They can’t bring us up real spoons!?” She got on the phone to room service and said, quite plainly, “Excuse me, I’m paying good money for this room and you could only bring me a disposable spoon? I’ll be needing a metal one. Thank you.” Two minutes later there was another knock on the door and four metal spoons arrived (we didn’t need four of them, but that’s okay) and they were wrapped in a cloth napkin this time.

Go Elaine!

I mean, we weren’t asking for a silver spoon, just one made out of stainless steel.

So, I ate my cereal with a bit of class – which, in my case, is “working class” and that’s just fine with me.

Another example of how I simply don’t fit in here is that yesterday, after my run, my running pants were wet because I had put them back on after my impromptu jump in the ocean in my underwear. When I got back to the room, I hung up my wet things on the railing and went about my day. When I returned to the room several hours later, the light on my phone was flashing indicating that I had a message.

The message was from the front desk. It said, “Excuse me Ms.Swift, can you please remove the clothing from the railing of your room. It’s a safety hazard.”

Really? What kind of safety is it threatening? There’s an awning under the balconies that covers the dining area, so the potential of falling clothing harming someone is absent. Besides, I actually tied them onto the railing in case the wind picked them up.

Perhaps it’s threatening the safety of having a set of balconies look pristine to all of the beach walkers and ensuring regular bookings at these resort rooms? Or, the safety of having each balcony look alike and unmarred by running gear, thus offsetting the consistent (read: conformist) “look” of the resort? Hhmm, other than those safety issues, I could think of no others.

I laughed out loud when I got the message. I went to check on the clothes that weren’t quite dry and so I left them up for another half hour before bringing them down.

Safety hazard, my ass.

The final and biggest insult here at this hotel was at the moment I checked in. The woman at the front desk told me that they no longer had any rooms available with two double beds and would we mind sharing a king-size bed or else having them roll in a cot for one of us to use? I was shocked. These rooms are listed between $350 and $1250 each and even though we got them through a wholesaler at $240 each, they’re still WAY overpriced in my opinion. We’re splitting it and even then, I don’t generally spend $120 on myself for a place to sleep!

My response to the front desk clerk was a calm and straightforward, “Uhm, no, not at this price! How about you just give us two separate rooms for no extra charge. I’m sure that’s possible.” She looked at me shocked and stammered, “Oh, no, we can’t do that, ma’am. Let me get my manager.”

The manager arrived and I smiled at her and introduced myself. I told her the situation, paused, leaned on the counter and put my head in my hand. I said, “I’ve got all the time in the world, so I’m sure you can figure this out. I’ll just hang out here until one becomes available.” The manager shook my hand, smiled back at me with clear eyes and then bent her heard and pushed some keys in the computer without a word. She then whispered something to her employee, turned and left.

Moments later I had my keys to this ocean front room that is listed at $1250 (robbery prices!) and definitely has two double beds in it. They obviously did have some available, just not in my original price range. Oh, the bureaucracy.

Did I just get a free upgrade? No complaints, of course.

When I told Elaine that story, she laughed with her whole body. It was at that point that I knew we’d have a great time together.

Eating off real metal spoons and staring at the ocean through the clothesline that doubles as our balcony railing.

In Maui, Hawaii.

Band on the Run: Golf Carts = Wildlife at Resorts

Ember Swift, Canadian musician and touring performer, will be keeping us up-to-date on what it’s like to tour a band throughout North America. Having just arrived back from Beijing where she spent three months (check out her “Canadian in Beijing” series), she offers a musician’s perspective on road life. Enjoy!

I wonder about resorts. Here I am in this perfect fantasyland and I am quietly contemplating it all with head slightly cocked to one side, brow furrowed. I wonder if resorts are about the illusion: the illusion of having enough money, of having a “staff,” of having food and drink plentiful and always available that has been prepared by others, of having a life of leisure.

I mentioned this to my close family members and the response was: “No, Ember. This is what normal people call a vacation.”

Uh-huh. Okay then. I’m clearly not normal. But, to be fair, that’s true. For me, a person who travels for work, my ultimate vacation takes place at home in my own bed with my own kitchen and the quiet of no strangers and no action. In fact, I could probably use some pointers on “vacationing” like a normal person.

I’m also clearly being told to relax and get into it. Live a little. Enjoy.

And, I’m working on it.

(Besides, I don’t play until tomorrow and there will be no sound check to be on time for and no band to assemble. I should be living it up! Don’t worry, it shouldn’t take me long…)

I went for a run this morning after a long sleep. Maui is six hours behind Toronto and so I slept until one p.m. in my body and found it was only seven a.m. here. Getting up and going for a run in the not-quite-killer heat was refreshing and a great way to start the day, (especially since I’m not really a morning person and it was great to feel rested before the day had really begun!)

Not to mention an excellent way to get the “lay of the land” here. I ran through the resort section, which is several resorts all squashed together here in Lahaina, Maui. In fact, it reminded me of Beijing and the university area (Wudaokou) where every corner seems to have a new gateway to yet another educational institution. So it is here with resorts. I can’t keep track of how many there are or where one stops and another begins. They are all beautifully coiffed, however, and each has beach access. We’re staying at the “Royal Lahaina Resort.

Also, there is a large golf course that seems to weave around them all. This sign made me laugh since the last time I saw a sign for anything “crossing” it was for moose and elk in Northern BC. I guess golf carts are the wildlife in resorts! (This thought made me laugh out loud to myself while running. A passerby heard me laugh and looked up, smiled and said good morning. It was all a really great moment.)

I soon discovered that the golf course cart trails made a decent running path this morning as there weren’t any golfers out yet, and it led me to the edge of the water and an historic plaque:

It seems that this part of the island – Lahaina – was once an important shipping port for the sugar cane industry. The port is called “Keka’a Landing Pier.” There were railroad lines that led from the plantations to this port and vice versa for supplies. Now, there is just this plaque and the crumbling remains of a pier that is no longer functional. The resorts are all edged up around this once-bustling pier and I’d imagine that not many people actually even see this little jutting section that holds so much history.

I stopped running then, for just a moment, to both read the plaque and do a full 180 degree turn to check out my surroundings. Staring at the ocean, the golf course comes right up to the cliff, which then weaves down overtop of large volcanic rock boulders on the right towards sand and beach. The resort on my left also hugs the cliff and the resort we’re staying in farther down on the right has outbuildings and cabins and various pools right up against the golf course and stretching into the distance. Its far side is flanked by another resort yet again. The beach continues, of course, and the water was sparkling.

I started running again then down across the volcanic rock boulders to the beach where I took up the hardened sand just above the waving water line. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way this land must have looked a hundred years ago and more. I wondered about the liveliness of the shipping port, the commerce or businesses that must have sprung up around it, the general din of boat horns and railroad steam engines. I imagined the people then. Could I imagine the scene even remotely accurately?

I got my running shoes wet then, daydreaming rather than avoiding the surf. It’s alright, though, because they’ll dry in this heat. They’re fine.

I turned around and headed back to the resort after awhile. When I got to the edge of the walkway back up to the lobby that led to the elevator that lead to my room (!), I took one look at the ocean and knew that I had to go in there. I stripped unceremoniously to my sports bra and white y-fronts and ran in.

For the first time in my life (even after numerous trips to Hawaii and New Caledonia) I understand now why the inside of swimming pools are blue in colour. They’re actually trying to replicate the beautiful blue of the ocean in places like this! (duh!#@ — and that’s directed at me!) Swimming under water, you could see the reflection of sun through the ocean and hitting the sand below, the turquoise water shimmering like sequins above my head.

It was gorgeous and I came out wearing the same shimmering grin as the ocean.

I then put my running pants and shirt back on, and, carrying my sneakers and walking barefoot, I dripped sand and salt water all through the patio, lobby, elevator and hallways and up to my room. I got back looking like a soggy sea urchin.

No, I should say: A smiling soggy sea urchin.

The ocean at my fingertips? I could get used to that.

And, check out the view.

Band on the Run: Trippin’ in O’Hare Airport


Ember Swift, Canadian musician and touring performer, will be keeping us up-to-date on what it’s like to tour a band throughout North America. Having just arrived back from Beijing where she spent three months (check out her “Canadian in Beijing” series), she offers a musician’s perspective on road life. Enjoy!

One of the big things that travellers often worry about is how to stay in shape while going from plane to highway back to airport to waiting room to plane to highway, etc. There’s a lot of sitting involved in travelling, especially when you’re going long distances, and sometimes it feels to me (someone who likes to run as my choice of exercise) that I am completely sedentary and blob-like for far too long.

Unless, of course, I am routed through O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, IL.

I’ve heard that this is the largest airport in North America in terms of square footage, but I’m having trouble supporting that with any source. Has anyone else ever heard that? I did learn that it is the second busiest airport in the U.S. and the second busiest in the world with over 76 million travellers through the airport in the year 2006. (source) Because so many flights come in and out of Chicago, there seems to be no logical reason for the placement of connections. They’re sometimes a full half-hour walk away and with delays, inclement weather and general O’Hare confusion, it’s not uncommon to miss one’s connection at this airport.

Even if you’re a runner.

This must be the largest airport in North America because I think I have walked the whole thing several times and I’ve had the blisters to prove it. I know now that being routed through Chicago will cure the “feeling-like-a-blob” blues. Especially today, when I had ten minutes to make it between terminal B and terminal C and had to basically run and walk at the same time while dragging my luggage and fellow travellers behind me.

There’s a causeway between these two terminals that amuses me. It’s designed like an eighties nightclub with neon tube lighting zigzagging across the ceiling and overall dim lighting in the tunnel to enhance their dance. They flip on and off like they’re on a slow strobe and the adjoining mirrors give the impression that there are even more lights going on than there are.

I know this is the airport’s attempt to install art in between the monotonous transfer between flights, but little did they know that they not only gave us a visual experience here, but they gave us a temporary exit from reality; an experiential gateway into what feels like another dimension.

An essential partner to this installation is the moving sidewalk that is installed here – two lengths of it – and perhaps you know what I’m talking about when I call these devices “trippy.” By this, I mean that it sometimes feels like I’m in another state of consciousness when I’m on them, especially if I’m also walking down them (not just letting them carry me) like I was doing today in my attempt to make the connecting flight. It is dream-like, as though you’re part floating and walking while also being swept across the floor towards the other end the way a camera zooms in and takes your eye with it without your consent.

Just head towards the light.

So put them together with the neon lights and it’s even more trippy. It suddenly makes me feel as though I’m under the influence of a reality-shifting drug and squashed into an all-ages travellers’ nightclub at which carry-on luggage is mandatory fashion. It was all I could do to stay focused and keep walking today without letting myself get lost in the colours.

I made it out the other side without disappearing into the illusion of it all, I’m proud to say. And, I also made my connection. The flight attendants with their colourful leis and big smiles had held the plane for the various delays that had already rippled their way across the entire airport. Our flight left about forty-five minutes after the schedule departure time, so I’m hoping that they also found the time to put our luggage on the same plane as our bodies. I guess we’ll find out when we land.

Maui, here I come.

I once had to stay overnight in Chicago because the President of your country down there had decided to spontaneously come to Chicago that day. This, of course, delayed all the flights (for security reasons) and made hundreds of people miss their connections. In fact, this was the information that we received from the Canadian aircraft that we were flying on because they had to delay their landing and do an extra loop around the city.

When we arrived at O’Hare, they told us that the delay was as a result of “inclement weather.” When I told these conflicting explanations to my friend in Chicago (who I phoned during my long attempt to find an alternative means home before giving up and heading for a hotel), she said: “The weather was perfect today here! And, yeah, the president was here too. They’re all such liars. They lie as easily about bombs as they do about the weather. What a joke!” I just sighed and didn’t feel any less helpless in the circumstance. I simply became part of a herd of discontented people forced to pay overpriced hotel fees and grumble under our breath about injustice.

(I did have some of the best vegan pizza that night that I’ve ever eaten. So, it wasn’t all that bad.)

Before the hotel decision, however, we had walked the whole of O’Hare airport being told to try various flights for openings to get us back to Canada. I believe that day that we walked a total of ten kilometres.

I think it was after that experience that I invested in carry-on luggage with wheels.

After O’Hare, I’m always happy to sit down again. Even if it’s in a plane while squashed into economy seating.

Now if only they could improve the lighting in the actual cabin. I’d love an optical illusion or two for such a long flight. I have many hours to go now.

Hawaii. Ten hours. Too much perfume. No vegetarian fare.

Where’s the flashing neon when you need it?

Band on the Run: Let’s Not Demolish the Old-Fashioned Fair

Ember Swift, Canadian musician and touring performer, will be keeping us up-to-date on what it’s like to tour a band throughout North America. Having just arrived back from Beijing where she spent three months (check out her “Canadian in Beijing” series), she offers a musician’s perspective on road life. Enjoy!

As I walked down the normally quiet street of Vankleek Hill, Ontario and saw the tips of the ferris wheel come into view, I got excited. At the gate of the fair, two men stood wearing bar-back aprons around their waists that advertised competing beer companies and each waist apron was stuffed with money. It was only $8 to attend the Vankleek Hill Fair and I think that was pretty reasonable, especially since it’s my first-ever experience at a real country fair.

And, let’s not forget, a Demolition Derby.

But before we get there, to the craziness of the derby, I must comment on the quaintness of this fair. Overall, this fair felt old-fashioned in every way. Even with the hip t-shirt vendors, Mohawk-shorn teens and mingling beeps of cell phones amidst the constant musical drone of the rides and betting games, I still expected to see women with long dresses and parasols trailing kids in suspenders licking giant lollipops — straight out of the turn of the century.

This is the real deal. I hope these kinds of fairs aren’t a dying breed.

I felt as though I were stepping back into time, or a book, or an old movie. There was a petting area for goats and llamas and donkeys as well as pony rides for kids (and check out these goat hooves in the grooves of the fence as they try to get fed by those walking past!); there were birds on display in cages explaining where they were from and who farmed what around the area; there were cotton candy vendors, kids with sticky fingers and the smell of hot dogs around every turn; the rides were full of screaming teenagers and bored teen attendants taking tickets that were overpriced to begin with – but who can put a price on thrills, eh!?

We got a “seat” at the Demolition Derby just about fifteen minutes before it started. Lyndell was so excited. She had been to these as a kid and said she loved them. I had no idea what to expect. Now, I say “seat” because it was really just a balancing position on a guard rail that wasn’t already being sat on. We had pretty good sight lines, actually, and I settled in for a brand-new cultural experience with what I tried to keep an open mind.

Someone described this to me in advance as “real-life bumper cars.” I hadn’t even considered this as entertainment in my whole life – I’d never heard of it – and the closest thing I could imagine about it was the monster truck programs that I’d seen on TV growing up. I figured it would be full of boys and their toys and that I’d be bored, but again, I tried to stay open. In the way of cars, I’m pretty stereotypically “girl.” (Although, I do like to talk about bio-diesel and alternative fuels when given the chance!)

We balanced on the railing trying to shift when our butts fell asleep as the first of the cars pulled into this extremely small area surrounded by stone barricades. In fact, I couldn’t believe it when over ten cars pulled into the area – an area smaller than a soccer field – as though they would have even a bit of room to breathe once they were all going different directions!

The announcer was a local radio host, I think. He was pretty terrible, but at least kept talking at the crowd to keep them informed about what was happening if they couldn’t see properly or didn’t know who was driving what. (Turns out that two women were in one of the heats. They didn’t win, but I was cheering them on and hoping they’d kick some butt on behalf of women everywhere!)

So this is what happens in a Demolition Derby: a whole bunch of cars gather in a small space (that in this case was muddy and slippery). When the whistle blows, they drive around and ram into each other until they destroy each other’s cars. These cars are basically “write offs” to begin with and have been selected for destruction. Many of these vehicles wouldn’t even pass the emissions or safety standards for licensing and so they’re “sacrificed” for the sport, if you will. When a car hasn’t moved in over a minute, they are out of the game and must remove the flag that is positioned just above the driver on the hood of the vehicle. When the last car is still running and moving, it is declared the winner. At that point, the driver crawls out of the window (all doors must be welded shut and all windows knocked out for safety) and stands on the roof of the car banging his chest. Basically, the only strategy to obtain this win is to position hits well (mostly by rearing into people so as to protect one’s engine) and to avoid being hit by others. I’d say there’s a lot of luck in it. (Or, in many cases, bad luck.)

It’s a giant free-for-all.

The place went crazy. Four different heats and one final round for any cars still able to compete even after their heats were over. Lots of smoke and fire and overheating. The ambulances and fire trucks were standing by. Lots of yelling and screaming.

I was sitting by these teenage girls with shiny clean braces that were direct contradiction with their dirty mouths. It amused me; It’s been so long since I could relate to the showing off that happens in groups of teenaged girls, especially when strangers can hear and no parents are near. One of the drivers – a 17 year-old “rookie” from the local high school — had painted all of their names on his car. One of the girls was thrilled to have her name in a central position and kept yelling “You bang ’em up Scotty and I’ll bang ya later!” Her friends giggled and guffawed but screamed their support too, wanting Scotty to “Kill that car” or “Watch that side – you’ll wreck our names!” Now fill in all the blanks with expletives and you’ve got the picture.

We left just before the final round to beat the crowds. Lyndell was bouncing in her feet as she walked, so happy to have relived something from childhood. I was trying not to be a “party pooper” about the environmental impact such an event has. It kinda made me feel sick to my stomach, actually, (which could have been the exhaust and the fumes) and I was quietly wishing that I could just lighten up and enjoy it without analyzing everything.

What I did enjoy was the energy of a community. Now, if we could only get that energy together to protect the local water rights, elect an honest representative for parliament, or phase-out factory farming and non-organic agriculture in these parts.

Now that would be a derby I’d attend.

In the meantime, I’ll likely go back again in the future (if we’ve got that Saturday off next summer) because I’ve a feeling I’ll be cheering Lyndell on. She’s keen to get behind the wheel and do some damage. She said it’s a smarter kind of “roller derby” for her bad knees!

That made me smile, despite my misgivings.

She’ll probably win.

Especially if we never demolish the old-fashioned fair.

Band on the Run: Sister Servant (Stag & Doe)

[Yes, that is a Tupperware container full of leis. If only getting laid (leid?) were as easy as opening a plastic container and reaching in!]

I arrived at my sister and her fiancé’s Stag & Doe party to a place filled with these colourful plastic leis around everyone’s neck, shiny paper palm trees and Hawaiian-themed napkins expertly placed on all the cocktail tables. Even the tables wore grass skirts and I couldn’t help but wonder if they would eventually start to do the hula when the night got underway. I mean, tables get lots of drinks poured down their necks, if you know what I mean! Anything could happen…

For those of you unfamiliar with this kind of event, a “Stag & Doe” is just a big party for both the bride and the groom at the same time. My sister is getting married next week and she’s getting married in Hawaii. Many people couldn’t afford the flights to attend and so this big party was to give those who can’t come an opportunity to wish the couple happiness and good times. Sort of a “hometown reception,” if you will.

As soon as I got there, my sister’s Maid of Honour came up to me with wide, imploring eyes and said: “Do you mind working the mic tonight? We need to make announcements and no one here really knows how to talk in front of crowds.” “No problem,” I said, much to her relief, and I wondered what “work the mic” really meant in the world of Stag & Does. I’m not exactly the most experienced attendee. What did they have in mind?

I found out rather quickly. I was told it would involve calling out numbers for betting games they would be playing to raise extra money for the couple, like a silent auction and a 50/50 game. I figured it would be a piece of cake.

(of the pre-wedding kind, of course!)

The venue was called “Joe Dog’s” and it’s located in Burlington, Ontario, the town where we spent our childhood. It’s basically just a bar with a downstairs dance club equipped with a lounge area, cocktail tables, a dance floor and a DJ booth.

It was behind the latter that I located the microphone and sound system. I immediately flipped into “work mode” and took in how their equipment works. I was just adjusting levels quietly to make up for the lack of EQ rack when the head bartender came over and scolded me for touching the equipment. I was taken aback, being that sound gear is something I know a lot about and dealing with sound systems is something that I do sometimes five or six times a week.

I apologized, explaining that I had forgotten my manners but that I wasn’t just a hack. She seemed satisfied with my apology and told me plainly not to let anyone else use the gear or come into the booth. She spun on her heels then and returned to the bar with tray balanced in one hand, the other hand still on her hip, bent as sternly as her mouth when she was scolding me.

I got it all working then and before long I was welcoming the crowd and then hosting the “horse races.” This was the most entertaining of games during the evening. Six “jockeys” were volunteers and each stood in their squares holding a cardboard horse between their legs. In fact, whoever made those horses spent a fair amount of time on them and did a damn fine job!

Their horses were all named cutesy Hawaiian or “weddingish” names and it was my job to get people at the party to roll the giant, steroid-filled die along the floor to see who would be the next rider to move ahead. Beforehand, there had been people walking the room collecting bets on the riders, so the crowd got involved in hopes to get some winnings (split with the bride and groom, of course) and cheered on the volunteers in fun as though their “racing performance” had anything to do with it rather than sheer luck of the toss.

There I was, musician-turned-sportscaster, trying to keep this interesting by reporting on the movements of the horses, joking about who was in the lead and who was taking up the rear, using every commentator-like line I could think of to keep the game rolling and to keep people interested.

“So, now we have rider number six taking the lead, folks, with number five just one square behind him. Who’s going to roll next? Let’s see who’s going to leave the others in their cardboard dust. There we go – we got cousin Lorie rolling the die now, cousin of the bride, and she has rolled a big five on this big die. No wonder there’s no other die to make a pair of dice – wouldn’t be room for them in the horseracing game box! Okay now jockey number five is sniffing victory and has moved up one and is now neck and neck with number six. And who’s taking up the rear but… oh, yes, it’s the mother of the bride! How does it feel to be back there, Mom?”

“Stop mentioning my rear!” she called out in response, tipsy from the wine and enjoying the frenzy of the occasion.

Everyone laughed.

It was that kind of night. All in all, I think I fared fairly well. I wouldn’t say it was easy, but I think the art of performance is sometimes nothing more than one’s ability to fake like you know what you’re doing. Sometimes a musician’s job can be very diverse, resulting in new experiences that you’d never dreamed of, let alone planned for. I was glad I had it in me. I’m also glad it’s over!

Now, if only I could have convinced the security staff to have the apostrophe on their shirts removed. Otherwise, they belong to the guard dogs, which really just makes them about as fierce as a chew toy.

They didn’t find that funny.

I guess I have no future as a comedienne!