It was not on our bucket list. We had never thought of visiting it before; in fact, I knew of it by name only. What happened was that I looked for something to do in early December, and a Road Scholar trip fit the bill. So, why did I search for an activity in early December? Let me explain.
In July, we reserved a B&B for a family get-together in December, just before Christmas. Our children live in Durham and Charlotte, NC, and Baton Rouge, LA, and I tried to rent a place central to all three. Just north of Chattanooga, TN, I found a place large enough to accommodate all the family.
Then in November, we told our children we would attend Thanksgiving dinner, assuming one of them would organize it.
The availability of three weeks – the time between Thanksgiving and the family get-together – prompted me to look for something to do during that period; we had no desire to drive from Ottawa south twice, a distance of a thousand miles each way.
I remembered my son’s mother-in-law enjoyed Road Scholar trips and looked up what trips were available in early December. A yoga class in North Carolina sounded interesting, but it was fully booked. Sightseeing trips to New York City and St Augustine did not appeal to us, but a kayaking trip in the Everglades did.
One concern was that the Everglades are another thousand miles further from our children’s homes where we would have our Thanksgiving dinner. But it would take us to a warm place and include a physical activity, kayaking, that we are fond of.
Reviewing the kayaking program, I had another concern: Road Scholar rates this trip hard on a scale they use to alert people of the physical difficulty of their trips. They advise that to participate, one should be able to kayak for 6 miles and walk 2 miles a day. The walking component was not a concern, but paddling six miles was. On balance, we decided we could do it since we kayak every summer, often for hours. So, I reserved the last two spots available.
With Thanksgiving Day approaching, I learned that my older son, Tony, was renovating his kitchen and not ready to prepare for a family dinner, which he has done for many years. Daughter Megan decided to take a job in Williamsburg, VA, and planned her move from Baton Rouge in early December, clearly not ready for entertainment. And David’s children and wife planned to visit family in Beaufort, SC, for Thanksgiving. Well, that was that, and instead of traveling south, we stayed in Ottawa and celebrated US Thanksgiving at home. We left for Everglade City the following Monday, on December 1.
Upon reflection, if we had not planned to have Thanksgiving dinner with family, I would not have reserved the Road Scholar trip because we would have just travelled to Tennessee for the family get-together. So, the real trigger to kayak in the Everglades was our intention to have Thanksgiving dinner with family. Funny how plans can have unintended consequences.
It was a typical Sunday morning. Kathy brewed some coffee, and then she and I scrolled through our iPhones, reading about the world’s problems, which put us in a negative mood. Instead, I suggested we leave reading the news and let Roomba, our iRobot, which we call Matilda, do some cleaning, and we have breakfast. Kathy agreed it was a good idea, so I switched the news channels on my iPhone to the Roomba app to start a “new job”. An iPhone is essential for accomplishing anything in today’s environment.
However, Matilda was in a cranky mood and sent me a voice message saying I needed to “blow out” the dirt from its previous job. It didn’t work at first; perhaps Matilda wasn’t quite awake. However, after ten minutes of troubleshooting accompanied by rich critical verbal expressions, I got it working. Listening to my running commentary on robots, AI, and techies, Kathy suggested a male name might be more fitting for our robot; a male’s early-morning grumpiness would more accurately reflects the robot’s behaviour this morning. So, we decided to rename the robot Mathis. The name was not a nod to Johnny Mathis; both of us are fans of his music.
But first, we had to clear the floor so Mathis could move around and clean. This meant putting the laundry basket, a few backpacks, slippers, and books lying on the floor onto the bed, in the bedroom. In the office, Kathy moved the office chair out of the way and the yoga equipment into another room. Finally, we were ready for Mathis to do his job.
Mathis struggled to navigate out of the dining room, which was full of obstructions. The room had five chairs and two tables, totaling twenty-eight legs that could interfere with Mathis’ movement. At one point, it seemed like he was lost as he moved back and forth, but he eventually found his way to the bedroom and the office. But his movements were inefficient overall, wasting significant battery power to reach the work sites.
For Mathis to work efficiently, it would be best to have an empty house with no furniture. Without obstacles like chair legs, he wouldn’t need to make detours and could make a clean sweep of the entire floor.
After some reflection, I decided to find a better home location for Mathis, with fewer obstructions on his way to reach the rooms in the house. A more central location in the house would avoid obstacles such as chair and table legs. So I moved Mathis’s home base to a new, central spot.
However, this change posed a potential problem: would Mathis feel at home in this new location after being accustomed to his previous spot? Are the floor plans in his memory tied to where he used to rest, or would he adjust and recognize the new location since he initially mapped our house from another place?
To test this new setup, I decided to give Mathis a “new job.” I asked him to clean the kitchen and the dining room after I turned all the chairs there upside down and placed them on the tables.
To see Mathis’s navigation skills in this new environment, I observed his movements. He seemed a bit lost at first, wandering around the living room before entering the dining room. However, he soon got to work, methodically cleaning the dining room by going back and forth, and then found the kitchen and cleaned it.
Overall, Mathis did an excellent job, and I considered rewarding him with a treat, such as a dog biscuit or candy, but how could I do it? This made me think that the brilliant designers of these robots should also provide rewards for good robotic behavior. Rewards could help robots learn from completed tasks and boost future performance.
My Facebook account often features ads for Tai Chi, showing a muscleboung sixty-year-old who claims that doing just ten minutes of Tai Chi each day could make me look like him. I may have clicked on one of these ads in the past, leading Facebook to identify me as someone interested in fitness. I’ve always tried to stay in shape; jogging used to be my hobby. Let me share my early experience with running a marathon.
Over 30,000 people participated in the Ottawa International Marathon when I ran it in the 1980s. It took me a while to decide whether I should take part. I’m not sure why I chose to run it; perhaps it was to prove to myself that I could do it. I trained by running five times a week, for months, gradually increasing the distance I covered.
On the day of the marathon, I drove downtown to the starting line, where the massive crowd packed a six-lane road, stretching for a mile. My identification tag showed a red color start, which meant I was assigned to the middle of the queue.
The organizers positioned the elite runners at the front, while the rest of us were queued based on our previous times for the distance: the longer your time was, the further back you started. This system helped ensure that the top runners would not be blocked along the run. I cannot recall what I put down as my previous time since I have never done it before.
Waiting in line, I chatted with the people around me. There were individuals of all ages, enthusiastic and willing to discuss their training, gear, and anticipated finish times. When the whistle blew, it took us ten minutes to start moving; there may have been 15,000 people ahead of us.
We all had a strategy regarding how fast to run. If you start fast, you might tire out within half an hour; it’s important to gauge your pace. I ran with a small group, maintaining the same pace together. What helped us were the “bunnies,” volunteer runners wearing bunny ears for visibility, who had a target completion time for the marathon, such as two hours or two and a half hours. I ran alongside a bunny aiming for a three-hour marathon, hoping to keep up with him, which meant maintaining a speed of about 7 miles per hour—half the speed of the fastest runners.
At each water station, I took a cup of water but made sure not to drink too much, as excessive fluid can lead to bloating that might slow me down. I also grabbed energy bars at the water stations and ate them while running. The spectators along the route clapped and encouraged the runners, which was uplifting for my gradually tiring mind and body.
A joke at the halfway point was to shout out that it was all downhill from there, which was not true; the course was flat the entire way.
Slowly my body began to ache all over. My muscles felt like they were cramping, forcing me to slow down, but I pressed on. As the finish line approached, an increasing number of spectators gathered along the roadside. As I spotted the end, a wave of motivation surged through me. I started to run hard purely on willpower; I didn’t even feel my legs move. When I crossed the finish line, people grabbed my arms to help me off the track. I staggered forward in search of a place to sit down and rest and received a solar blanket for warmth, as did every finisher.
After resting, I mingled with other finishers before heading over to the refreshments. Students from a massage therapy program were awaiting us, and I decided to buy a ticket for a massage; it was incredibly satisfying. I felt every bone and muscle in my body walking back to my car; it took a day to rejuvenate my body.
I have always found running enjoyable. It started as a solitary activity for me until I joined a running club in Ottawa. Running with a group was a fun experience, even though I rarely talked to the other runners. This wasn’t due to being out of breath; rather, I am an introvert. However, I appreciated the conversations happening around me as the runners chatted about their training habits, families, and hobbies.
Running has significantly improved my physical health. It helped to maintain my weight, lower my cholesterol, and enhance my sleep quality. Additionally, I found great joy in being outdoors, inhaling fresh air, smelling flowers, listening to birds, and watching the landscape.
Whenever I ran, I felt relaxed, often listening to jazz on a Walkman. Whether it was winter, dressed in three layers, or summer, in just one layer, once I got into my rhythm some people refer to as “the zone”, I would empty my mind of daily chores and worries, I lived in the present. I highly recommend it to everyone.
The challenge was figuring out what to wear to the Harvest Ball. I thought I had a sports jacket, but it wasn’t in the closet; then I remembered I’d given it to the charity store years ago. I have collared shirts and some fancy T-shirts, but the only formal wear I have is a black suit I haven’t worn in decades, and I was not sure if it still fits. The question was: What do people wear to a Ball today?
The Ball, organized by the Ottawa Hungarian House, was held at the Hungarian community hall, an informal space in an industrial building. I decided the safest thing to wear was the formal suit. But I could take off the jacket in the beginning, and with no tie and an open shirt, I would match the space’s informality.
We arrived 30 minutes early: the dinner was at 6pm. The hall was almost empty except for the organizers. There were no seating arrangements, so we picked a table on the side, next to a well-dressed woman sitting alone at the table next to us. By way of introduction, she said she was Clara and that she and her husband had come from Hungary in 1967. She spoke in Hungarian. When I said that Kathy does not speak Hungarian, she asked if she spoke English or French. When we settled on English, she said that she and her husband started a fur-making business and moved to Baie-Comeau, Quebec, in the early seventies, where the demand for furs was strong. When the local mining industry died and demand for fur declined, they moved to Ottawa. They continued making furs in their basement factory.
I went to the bar to buy a couple of glasses of wine. When I returned, a Hungarian couple sat down at our table. His name was Zoltan, and I remarked that it was a good Hungarian name. I did not catch the wife’s name; it was getting noisy. Nokia hired Zoltan when he finished university in Hungary. After a couple of decades, Nokia transferred him to Seattle for two years, and then to Ottawa. They have been in Ottawa for a couple of years and like it here.
Zoltan’s wife was talkative and said that life is much easier here with all the appliances available, than in Hungary. I gathered they would like to stay on after their four-year work visa expires.
A huge bowl arrived at our table, filled with porkolt (pork stew). Although there were only four of us, the bowl could have served twice as many people. We served ourselves in family style. I enjoyed the porkolt, which was liquid and felt more like soup than stew. After tasting the porkolt, Zoltan’s wife thought that no real Hungarian paprika was used and that the porkolt could have been spicier. I agreed, but I enjoyed it with chunks of pork, carrots, and potatoes.
Oue Hungarian table companion serving “porkolt” family style
A couple of violinists and a bassist started playing Hungarian folk songs during the meal. The instruments reminded me of the music of Django Reinhardt – gypsy music with a swing – but these musicians played chardas, for Hungarian folk dance. People got up to dance, and soon the dance floor was packed. By now, the community hall had become extremely noisy, with over a hundred people talking, and dancing to the music. It was hard to speak and listen to our table companions.
As I have recently joined the Ottawa Hungarian House, I did not know anyone there. I have never been ethnically oriented. When we came to Canada, we were the type of immigrants who wanted to amalgamate into Canadian society. We did not live the life of the old country. And I married an American girl I met in graduate school at the University of North Carolina. We always spoke English at home, and the children grew up as native Canadians. I came to this event to hear some Hungarian spoken; I may be getting sentimental.
However, I knew some people from my high school in Hungary who studied with me at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. I heard they came to Ottawa and approached the bartender if he knew any of my old friends, the twins Kalman and Peter Roller.
He said, “Of course, Pista Roller is sitting back there,” and he took me to him, who was not Kalman or Peter but looked like their spitting image. Pista told me there were four brothers in the family. I was shocked to hear that the twins were dead: one had brain cancer and the other dementia. One was a pharmacist doing research in China and the other worked for the National Institutes of Health in Washington, DC. I wanted to follow up on this information and asked for his phone number to arrange for a get together.
Dessert came when I got back to my table. It was a caramelized pastry in the shape of a tube, four inches in diameter, and eight inches tall. I looked inside, thinking that there was some cream or fruit there. No, there was nothing inside; you ate the tube. The Hungarian couple explained that you tear a piece off with your hand, eat it, then keep tearing it apart and eating it. It is called kurtoskalach (chimney cake) and is a popular Hungarian dessert.
Chimney cake
It was an enjoyable evening of contrasts, combining ethnic foods, music, and dancing with people reading their iPhones and speaking English. The evening brought up memories. I described to our tablemates how we escaped from Hungary during the Hungarian Uprising of 1956. Our table companions who came to Canada two years ago acted like Canadians their age. And the Hungarians who came out decades ago enjoyed reliving the music and food of the time they left Hungary.
Dana Milbank’s recent Washington Post article about forest bathing caught my attention. Forest bathing is like a walk in the park, but with a focus on the forest’s sights, sounds, and smells. Forest bathing, a trend originating in Japan in the late 1800s known as shinrin-yoku, is spreading in the U.S. The Harvard Medical School even offers a course on it for its overworked residents, highlighting its significance.
Forest bathing involves taking a leisurely walk in a forest while disconnecting from digital devices and focusing on sensory experiences. It includes stopping to contemplate your surroundings and even taking off your shoes to feel the ground beneath you. Engaging in conversations with trees and plants is also part of the experience. The walk can last anywhere from an hour to a few hours, and the beneficial effects can last for days or weeks.
According to enthusiasts, the benefits include improving the immune system, lowering blood pressure, promoting relaxation, and enhancing sleep. Walking among trees allows you to breathe in tree oils known as phytoncides and plant compounds called terpenes. Studies suggest that these chemicals may help prevent cancer and protect against dementia. While I’m not entirely convinced of all the claims, this information has inspired me to give forest bathing a try.
I visited the paths behind Ottawa’s Sportsplex. I strolled at a leisurely pace of three kilometers per hour (about two miles per hour), fully engaging my senses. I could hear airplanes flying overhead and the sounds of traffic from the major roads surrounding the park. The traffic noise was quite noticeable, especially since there were no leaves on the trees to act as a buffer. I did hear leaves falling, but I didn’t hear any birds singing; they must have flown south for the winter, as it is November.
As I looked around, I noticed the attractive tapestry of leaves on the ground. Many trees lay on the ground, some having fallen during windstorms and others cut down to clear pathways. Many fellow walkers, some with their dogs, greeted me and engaged in conversations.
The ground felt soft beneath my feet, and I could feel the wind gently brushing against my face. The bark of the trees felt cold to my touch. Apart from a few dogs licking my hands, I didn’t experience other tactile sensations.
I decided to slow down even more and took a break, sitting on a fallen log. I attempted to meditate but was unsuccessful: as people walked by, they would say hello, and I felt compelled to respond. I could use some guidance on how to engage more deeply with nature and avoid distractions to fully benefit from walking in the forest.
On the internet, I searched for “forest bathing near me.” I found a company advertising a forest bathing walk in Arnprior, a community sixty kilometers from my home, scheduled for next week. The registration cost was $40 for a three-hour guided walk, which was worth it. However, I couldn’t find an online registration page, so I emailed to request a spot.
A few days later, I received a response informing me that the guide was sick, and the walk had been canceled. Another company advertised various activities, such as dancing, meditation, and yoga, in addition to forest bathing. However, their leader was in India and, according to the website, was “locked up” in a happy state.
While browsing online, I came across the Arizona organization that certifies people as forest bathing guides. Lucky for me, they had a scheduled Zoom session just a few days later, so I quickly registered. However, I was disappointed when I listened to the meeting; it wasn’t what I had expected; it was a sales pitch for a course.
On the Zoom call, two forest bathing practitioners presented information about a training course for becoming a certified guide. One practitioner spoke from Boston, and the other from Portugal. The six-month online course is priced at over US$3,000, with an extra US$500 required for a one-week on-site training. Instead of a commercial for a training course, I had hoped for hands-on instruction on how to conduct a forest bathing walk.
I have always enjoyed the outdoors for many activities, including walking. With friends, we walked the Chilkoot Trail, the Camino Santiago, and other trails. Still, I was not aware of forest bathing at that time and paid less attention to sensory experiences. But walking in nature has some challenges. Let me give some examples.
While walking under the foliage of giant maple trees at our cottage a few years ago, I stumbled upon a ball made of leaves and small twigs on the ground. When I picked it up to examine it, an army of wasps came buzzing around my face. I quickly ran back to the cottage to escape them. Subsequently, I received shots for several years to immunize myself.
By some stroke of luck, I’ve attracted ticks at the cottage two years ago. I was treated for Lyme disease with doxycycline for four weeks. This year, I’ve become popular with ticks again and ended up contracting another illness spread by ticks, called anaplasmosis, which put me in a hospital for four days. Again, I was treated with doxycycline.
I’m not suggesting that the outdoors is so dangerous that it should be avoided, but that there are hazards to be aware of. Given the years I’ve spent hiking in the forest and enjoying the outdoors, these misadventures feel like brief moments. So, by all means, go into the forest and enjoy walking.
The literature I’ve read on forest bathing advises disconnecting from urban life, embracing the outdoors, and living in the present moment. The practice of forest bathing encourages slowing down—rather than walking briskly to reach a destination, meander and explore unknown paths, and discover nature through your senses. Although my experience indicates that, depending on the season, one should combine DEET bathing with forest bathing.
I found that forest bathing is more challenging in practice than it is in theory. Letting go of your thoughts on daily life can be difficult, as is avoiding distractions from others you may encounter, or pausing conversations with a companion, while walking. It’s best to go alone at times when there aren’t many dog walkers in the park.
andrasthehun.ca 