Last Friday, the Mental Health Association of Nova Scotia held its annual gala fundraiser, A Different Stage of Mind, in support of mental illness. I was lucky enough to be invited by some friends, and given the number of fitness classes I've been teaching over the past few weeks, welcomed the opportunity to get dressed up in something other than spandex—a fact which did not go unnoticed amongst some of the other attendees who are also participants in my classes. 

"Wow! Look at you! You're all done up in hair and make-up. And what a fabulous dress. We almost didn't recognize you. You're gorgeous." Yes, obviously they had been drinking, but they were so flabbergasted by my appearance, it was almost laughable. "We're just not used to seeing you in clothes." 

Of course that last comment caused a number of heads to turn, as some of the mucky-mucks immediately thought there was a pole dancer in their midst. After informing them of my show times—9 and 11pm, Mondays through Fridays—I really did have to laugh since it never ceases to amaze me how people can have very distinct perceptions about an individual. And any time you step out of that box, it can lead to very different reactions. Especially when it comes to the discussion of mental illness, an issue that's been on my mind, both because of the event on Friday night and a commercial which has been playing on Canadian TVs repeatedly. 

You see, back in 2010, Bell Canada launched a five-year, $50 million charitable program dedicated to the promotion and support of mental health throughout the country. As part of Bell’s efforts to reduce the stigma of mental illness, it created the "Let’s Talk" awareness campaign to engage Canadians in the dialogue around mental health. And for the 2012 marketing initiative, Bell hired Clara Hughes to star in their ads. 

Now for those of you unfamiliar with the name Clara Hughes, well, obviously you have no interest in sports...which is mind-boggling...but let's move on. Clara Hughes is a six-time Olympic medalist in cycling and speed skating, and the only athlete in history to win multiple medals in both the Summer and Winter Games. Naturally, she was chosen to be Canada's Olympic flag bearer at the 2010 Winter Olympics, and watching her lead the Canadian team into the stadium, you couldn't help but grin from ear-to-ear upon seeing her bright red hair and dazzling smile light up BC Place Stadium and millions of TV sets around the world. But behind the famous smile lurked a fear of falling back into darkness, because Clara suffered from depression, a depression which she continues to battle to this day. 

Rather than hide in shame about her illness, Clara decided to go public and is now a leading advocate of mental health. “My story is small compared to people I know still struggling with mental illness. But people come up to me to talk now. In an airport in Montreal, or on the street in Toronto, someone will tell me what they’ve gone through, or what their family member or friend has gone through. And they always say, ‘Thank you for what you’re doing with this campaign.’”

Because like it or not, there's a stigma that surrounds mental illness. Most people are unwilling to discuss it, even though when you factor in spouses, siblings, friends and co-workers, mental health touches each and every one of us. In fact, according to the Canadian Institute of Health Research, one in five Canadians will experience mental illness in his or her lifetime. 

I should know. Because for a brief period, I was one of those one in five.  

It was a couple years after my mom had died, yet in many ways, I was still reeling from her death, and even the death of my father a decade before. And although I had the love and support of literally hundreds of other family members and friends, I don't know when I'd ever felt so sadly alone. 

To try and fix the problem, I went through a whole host of coping mechanisms, but nothing worked. I. Could. Not. Get. Happy. Which sounds, I'll admit it, "crazy," especially to those who know me...or think they know me. Because just as there is a perception that I wear nothing but Adidas and lululemon gear, there's also the idea that I'm one deliriously happy person. And for the most part, I am. Now. 

But back in 1999, I wasn't. I was desperately unhappy. To even smile hurt both mentally and emotionally. And believe me, when you're teaching 11 fitness classes a week and can't smile at the dozens of participants who are relying on YOU for their leadership, motivation and fitness magic, well, Houston, we have a problem. 

So I finally “caved in” and went to see a psychiatrist, who after hearing me out for 25 minutes, immediately prescribed me Paxil. Admittedly I didn't want to even try an anti-depressant, because I looked at it as a sign of weakness, a sign of failure that I wasn't strong enough to deal with this on my own. But with a great deal of trepidation, I took a pill, and a couple of hours later, it was like my motor of happiness had been jump-started. I was able to crawl out of the rock bottom I had hit in a personal pit of depression. However, once my head had risen above the despair of those first few inches, a new problem surfaced: I couldn’t sleep. My body felt like it was humming, vibrating, all the time.

At the next appointment with the psychiatrist the following week, I explained my reaction. And his reaction? He gave me a prescription for sleeping pills. I tried those for a couple of days, and not only did the humming continue, but I was sleeping even less. So I took the Paxil and the sleeping pills and threw them in the garbage—and then got a new therapist.

Because for me, personally, I realized I didn't need a prescription for happiness. Once I had been jump-started, I knew I just needed someone to talk to. Someone who didn't know me, who didn't have any preconceived ideas about me, nor I of them. Someone who could listen objectively, without judgement, and teach me a number of things, including my life is not a check-and-balance sheet on file with God. 

That's what worked for me. And when those around me noticed the positive upswing, they wondered what had happened to begin with. So I shared my story, including the brief encounter with meds and psychiatrists, and was utterly surprised at how many other people were seeking professional counseling, or on anti-depressants, or wanted to get help and were terrified at the prospect. But the most shocking discovery was just how grateful these people were in hearing my story. Somehow that if Nicolle "The Fitness Magic Queen of Happiness" Spagnoli had gone through this, then perhaps we're not as alone in this battle as we might think.

And here's what I have to say about that.

Folks, the one truly positive thing that I've learned through the death of my parents is that life is too short, and so we owe it to ourselves to be as deliciously happy as we can be, each and every day. If that means falling in love, or getting a new job, or selling your house and travelling around the world for a couple of years, then you do it. And if it means seeking professional help, taking medication, or even sitting down with a life coach to figure out how to identify and achieve your personal goals of happiness, then you do it. You do whatever it takes to live your best life possible. 

And then you share. 

Am I sharing too much, yet again? Well, admittedly I'm going for the sympathy vote as this week's entry for Life From A Broad is a little late. In between sickness and health—and trying to write an entirely new website for a client, meetings with other clients, operating under the influence of extra strength cold medications, and following the latest updates on the deaths of both Whitney Houston and Gary Carter—something had to give. And unfortunately it was the blog, which normally provides a huge amount of pleasure, both in me writing and hopefully for you reading. But I just couldn't muster up the required energy to recall the meet-and-greet insanity during my second week in Hong Kong, let alone write about it in a somewhat less-than-droll fashion. 

Now perhaps you're wondering how it's possible that in just two weeks—in a place where I didn't know a soul and had no clue of how to get from A to B—I managed to be taking taxis, subways, trams and ferries to meet with the most disparate group of people you could imagine. (A random sampling would include the Presidents of The Hong Kong Business Women's Association, The Entrepreneurs Club of Hong Kong, and the South Africa Women's Chamber of Commerce, a Walt Disney executive, three public relations firms, a couple of vegans, a Mormon and Mick Jagger's doctor.) But such is the beauty of Hong Kong, and such is the power of Meetup.com.

For the uninitiated, Meetup is billed as the world's largest network of local groups and "makes it easy for anyone to organize a local group or find one of the thousands already meeting up face-to-face." With 92,000 local groups in 45,000 cities around the world, more than 2,000 groups get together in local communities each day. And with so many Meetup options available, it's pretty well guaranteed that you can find some like-minded individuals in whatever you desire.

In fact, enter the word "desire" into Meetup.com's search engine, and here a few event options happening over the next week: 

• The 600 Megawatt Meditation That Made London Glow - hosted by the Journey of Truth Meetup Group in London, England
• Homicide School for Crime Writers - hosted by the Los Angeles Film Meetup Group in Los Angeles, California
• Introduction to Slow Sex - hosted by the Slow Sex is Better! Meetup Group in Austin, Texas   

Or say you're living in Vancouver and looking to diversify both your resume and your personality. Enter "Vancouver" in the city search field, and choose from 633 Meetup groups including the Amateur Poker League, the Running and Jogging Club, the Wealthy Investor Network, the Empowerment Support Group for Depression and Anxiety or the Vancouver Sea Kayaking Group. There's even, and I can't believe I'm writing this with a straight face, Rockstar Life, where you can "roll with the Entourage and be a part of the ultimate guys club." The organizer is Ryan—as in "they call me Ryan Cola...but I don't mind it with Seven"—and his motivation for the group is "to hang out with some of the coolest people and meet crazy hot women." 

So yes, there will always be the token moron in virtually every organization in the world, but for the most part, Meetup really does give you the opportunity to meet some interesting people in out of the way places. And such was the case for me in Hong Kong.

To try and meet some people, who may or may not be interested in healthy chocolate (since remember, I was only in Hong Kong to test the Chinese chocolate market and see if there were some potential business opportunities), I had joined up a number of groups, such as the Hong Kong Wine Lovers' Group, the Entrepreneurial Group, the Small Business Group, and even The Foodie Group. And it was because of The Foodie Group that I found myself literally at the end of the line.

To be more precise, I was in an apartment in Chai Wan, at the end of MTR subway line on Hong Kong Island and as far away as one could possibly be from my hotel in the Central district. We were way out in the HK boonies, because the apartment was big enough to accommodate over 20 people (massive by HK standards), and was being rented by Michelle, a school teacher from the States and a member of the Foodie Group.

The theme for the evening was "Pot Luck"—something fairly foreign to most Hong Kongers/Chinese—so it made for an interesting assortment of international cuisine. Of course there were a number of vegetarian dishes involving legumes and cabbages brought by the vegans in the group. There were salads, and pasta dishes, and chicken dishes, and even crepes and some weird alcoholic punch being concocted on site by two very tall, slightly inebriated European girls. 

I became an instant conversation piece by virtue of the fact that I had made my prosciutto and cheddar balsamic-glazed bruschetta and that I had found my way out to Chai Wan, even though I'd only been in Hong Kong a mere couple of days. And then when people got the back story of how I was travelling around the world for the past five months, and had stopped off in HK to pick up some chocolate? Well, it made me even more of an oddity in a region which specialized in the sublimely bizarre. 

The two tall European girls—Inge and Eva—seemed to take a particular liking to me, and I to them. Perhaps it was the effects of the punch, which Inge had been guarding jealously from some of the other Foodie members, but had very graciously allowed me to partake in the swigging. Or perhaps it was my overwhelming need to make some real friends in a meet/meat market of a town. But I honestly felt that these were two women who I could hang out with, have fun, and be taken under their considerable wingspans/armpits. They could provide a little bit of comfort and support, despite the fact they were born when I was still Wang Chung-ing my way through school. So we decided to go out the next night for a couple of drinks so they could show me more of HK's considerable sights.

What could possibly go wrong?

It’s this weird, wonderful and bewildering juxtaposition of East meets West, traditional versus modern, opulent wealth parried with remote fishing villages, which has beguiled millions of people from every corner of the world, including yours truly. The allure of Hong Kong is so pervasive that the vast majority of expatriates find themselves staying much longer than originally intended.

For many, the amount of time spent/served in HK is actually considered a badge of honour. And it’s quickly determined upon initially meeting someone—anyone!—as you are immediately greeted over and over again, not with three wishes, but with these three identical questions:

1. “Where are you from?”
2. “What do you do?”
3. “How long have you been here?”

Depending on how you answer, the ensuing conversation can go a number of ways. 

1. “You’re from Canada? I have a cousin in Montreal” or “I love Vancouver. Canada's very safe. Where’s Halifax?”
2. “You sold your house and you’re traveling the world while writing a book? Fantastic!” or “That’s nice,” and then the person smiles politely and walks away because you can’t help them in their business pursuits.
3. “You’ve been here three days? Wow! You just got here!” or “I was only supposed to be here for six months…and that was 18 years ago.”

While it may seem a bit blunt or even crass to be subjected to encapsulating your resume down to a couple of bullet points for random strangers, I actually appreciated the no-nonsense meet-and-greet approach. Why dick around with idle chit-chat and small talk when you really want to know, “How can this person help me and my business?”

Yes, it may make for transient encounters and feelings of inadequacy if you’re not up to the networking challenge, but wow, can you ever meet a lot of people and get a hell of a lot of business done. It’s also why so many people who were initially sent to HK on a work placement end up staying there for MUCH longer than planned because it’s so damn easy to do business. Work hard, make some tax-free money and get out…or not. Because just as Hong Kongers and expats like to work hard, they love to play even harder, and nowhere is that more evident than the party mecca that is Lan Kwai Fong.

Hmmm, how to describe Lan Kwai Fong? 

Basically LKF is smack in the center of the business district of Hong Kong Island, and defined by two L-shaped streets to form a rectangle. In the middle of the rectangle are a minimum of four floors’ worth of bars and restaurants; on the opposite side of the street surrounding the rectangle are more bars and restos. Now take that image in your head and tilt it to the left. A sharp left, so it’s on a fairly steep angle. So steep in fact that on January 1, 1993, 21 people were killed while celebrating ringing in of the New Year. “The location’s narrow streets and a sloped gradient" were cited as contributing factors. (Oddly enough, no mention of alcohol was made as having played an undue influence.) 

At the top of the tilted LKF rectangle is a huge stone wall. Behind the wall is, yes, more bars, and at the top of the wall, overlooking the insanity below, are dozens of bystanders. I say “bystanders” rather than “the audience” because while they'll most certainly be entertained, it’s guaran-frickin-teed that at any given point they'll be watching a train wreck in progress. 

The train in question is carrying hundreds upon hundreds of expats who are virtually all in various states of inebriation. What else can you expect when you’re offered a choice of dance bars, classic rock bars, sports bars, wine bars, cocktail bars and pubs, all intent in providing the happy in “happy hour” which can start anywhere from 3:00pm onwards. (The term “hour” doesn't really apply.) And that doesn’t even include the free drink specials that are offered at “pick-a-bar-any-bar.”

During my first week in Hong Kong, while I was being wined and dined and meeting an international rolodex of people, naturally everyone wanted to take me to LKF (not that I put up much of a fight in resisting temptation). And each time I went, it was impossible to determine when LKF closed because I couldn’t stay awake that long. It was bar hopping insanity at its finest.

Seriously. Where else, in the world, could you go from drinking mojitos at a Nepalese resto-bar to sipping chocolate martinis at a French renaissance bar, then walk a couple feet to the “Soho district” for dancing to ABBA tunes at a glam bar, smoke sheesha in an Arabic restaurant, listen to a Swedish jazz combo in a space the size of my living room, pop across the street for a beer at a Canadian bar called “Joyce Is Not Here,” and do a little reggae dancing at African bar Makumba? And for the most part, all of these places run by actual Nepalese, Saudi Arabians, Afrikaners, Canadians and lovers of Swedish musicians? 

Talk about a mosaic of sensory overload! I walked around LKF with a look of sheer incredulity on my face—with or without the influence of beverages—because it NEVER, EVER STOPS. EVER. And everyone’s so damn happy. And horny. As if they feel they’re so lucky to be in such a liquor wonderland, and they’d like to spread the joy any way they possibly can. 

Of course when you think about it, if you do decide to spread the joy later that evening with a special someone with whom you’ve shared numerous happy hour prices and four-ounce jello shots, you’re probably both going to end up metaphorically sleeping with 58 other expats in HK, since the expat community is like one big extended international and incestuous family. A somewhat sobering thought for perhaps some not-so-sober people. 

All of these international influences—liquid or otherwise—were enough to make my head spin and send me back to my hotel for some much needed sleep. And Advil. Which is why during my first week in Hong Kong, I never did find out when LKF actually shut down, or be able to keep up with the ever-increasing requests for meetings, or make it out to yet another dinner party. And unfortunately I was due to fly out on February 10 and head for Dubai.  

Hmmm, maybe I should look at changing my flight and staying here just a little bit longer... 

However, one non-cliché traveling caveat was, “I’m done with Asia. Been there, smelled that, time to move on to Europe.” Though seemingly harsh, there’s absolutely no disrespect intended because I love Asia—both the continent and its people, the British prog-rock band not so much, although the song “Heat of the Moment” was decent.

But I’d already lived in Japan for two years, and traveled through Thailand, Malaysia, South Korea, China and Hong Kong. And remember, the plan was to get this sorry Canadian ass to Italy. Right? Wrong. Because as usual nothing ever goes to plan, even when you don’t have one. So with a sense of déjà/Asia vu, once again I found myself back in Asia (Hong Kong to be precise), and it was all because of chocolate (healthy chocolate to be even more precise). Perhaps an explanation is in order.

Over the years, I’ve been approached by a number of people in the world of direct sales/network marketing. Given the fact that I’ve been a sales executive and know/come in contact with a lot of people, especially through the fitness industry, it’s not altogether surprising. So you name the company, I’ve been asked to be a representative: Tupperware, Avon, Cutco, Arbonne, Herbalife, Agel, Mary Kay, Melaleuca, Pampered Chef and even Fantasia—not the American Idol singer, but rather the home-party organization which offers high quality massage oils, edible creams, novelty items, lingerie and, of course, adult toys.

And while I love a good bottle of emotion lotion as much as the next girl, I’ve always said no to all of these offers—that is until a friend introduced me to a company called Xocai, which makes healthy chocolate products. Immediately, I was intrigued. “Chocolate that’s healthy? And acts as an appetite suppressant, and reduces cholesterol, and improves your skin and tastes great? No friggin’ way.”

So in order to do a personal clinical trial, I started eating it regularly and noticed that it got rid of both my winter-time eczema and my joint pain from all the years of teaching high-impact aerobics at 188 beats per minute. Not to get bogged down with a choco-lotta details, but I loved the stuff so much, I even packed a couple of boxes into a suitcase upon leaving Nova Scotia.

Unfortunately while in Melbourne, the chocolate supply had finally run out, and the joint pain was starting to creep back. Right around the same time, a friend back in Halifax emailed to say Xocai had just launched in Hong Kong in the fall of 2009. And if I was willing to “pop over” to Hong Kong for a couple of weeks, she’d set up some meetings for me to test the Chinese chocolate market, and I could pick up a couple of boxes of chocolates from the warehouse to last me through the Italian spring.

Yes, I know. With you reading this—and me writing this—it sounds absolutely ridiculous. And truthfully, if it meant going to anywhere else in Asia but Hong Kong, I wouldn’t have agreed. However, I loved Hong Kong, because back in the early 90’s, I’d spent a memorably insane or insanely memorable week in “the Pearl of the Orient.”

Actually the entire time was spent in the swirl of Kowloon, with bargain shopping during the day, followed by bar hopping through the night (based on the availability of happy hour prices and hot men), and eventually crashing each morning at the infamous Chungking Mansions, renowned amongst backpackers all over the world. At the time, I was so happily immersed in Kowloon’s party central district that I didn’t even know there was an area in Hong Kong called Central, let alone that it was on an island called, wait for it, Hong Kong Island.

Which is exactly where I found myself 17 years later, after a 9½ hour Cathay Pacific flight from Melbourne to Hong Kong. But this time around I was completely alone. Accompanied only by two massive suitcases (+ carry-on). And not knowing a single person amongst the 7,000,000 inhabitants crammed into Hong Kong’s 426 square miles. A destination decision based on a chocolate nugget. Dear God, what have I got myself into this time?!

Nicolle, there’s no need to feel down, 
I said, Nicolle, pick yourself off the ground,
I said, Nicolle, ’cause you’re in a new town,
There’s no need to be unhappy.
Nicolle, there’s a place you can go,
I said, Nicolle, when you’re short on your dough, 
You can stay there, and I’m sure you will find,
Many ways to have a good time. 

Yes, folks, it really is fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A…or even the Y-W-C-A Garden View, located in the Mid-Levels section of Hong Kong. I had chosen the Y for a number of reasons:

1. It was close to where my pre-booked chocolate meetings were to be held
2. It had a gym and Wi-Fi (two must-haves), with a restaurant on the main floor and a grocery store around the corner (two kinda-nice-to-haves)
3. In one of the world’s most densely populated areas, where space is definitely at a premium and which you pay for big time, the rates at the YWCA Garden View were reasonable for a pretty damn nice room…with a view. (See picture at right.) And given the fact that I was going to be staying for 10 days/9 nights, and didn’t want to spend thousands of dollars on a chocolate factory dream—but refused to return to the Chungking Mansions glory days or anything remotely approaching backpacker living—the YWCA Garden View was a happy medium choice. 

Plus the Y also provided some much-needed reassurance and comfort, since I was feeling fairly overwhelmed. Having volunteered at my local YMCA for years, the Garden View Y made me feel a bit like being back home, even if the only commonality between Hong Kong and Nova Scotia is that they both have two words in their names. But yes, the Y really was a place I could go and get myself off the ground, and maybe at some point, I could hang out with all the boys.

To initially settle my nerves, though, I decided a cup of tea was in order. How very Nova Scotian of me. Except this was the HK version of a cup of tea, as in Afternoon Tea at the world-famous The Peninsula Hotel, complete with crustless sandwiches, scones & clotted cream and impeccable silver service—as well a four-piece emsemble playing classical music on the balcony overlooking the international tea-totaller set. 

Dorothy, you may not be back in Kansas (or Nova Scotia) anymore. But you're definitely back in the madcap, over-the-top, has-to-be-seen-to-be-believed world otherwise known as Asia. 

But when in control, both you and the car are running on all cylinders. You constantly scan for potential hazards, choose the inside or outside lane depending on foreseeable traffic jams, and avoid getting stuck behind a big-ass Cadillac or any type of Volvo, because the drivers are either really old or incredibly bad.

On the day I turned 16, I got a beginner’s driver’s license, and then having impatiently waited the mandatory 60 days, went out at 9:32am that morning to pass my road test and get my actual driver’s license. Less than a year later, after bugging Mom incessantly to borrow her Olds Cutlass Ciera since I HAD to DRIVE somewhere very important, I was buzzing around in my first car.

It was a high school girl’s dream: a black Nissan Pulsar NX with removable sunroof and customized Alpine stereo system, able to blast out George Michael, U2 and Prince tunes at full volume. And over the years, while still listening to George, U2 and the Artist Formerly Known As, the Nissan Pulsar NX was followed by a Honda Prelude, a Volkswagen Golf and a Mazda 3—all in spite of my import-hating Ford- and GM-employed relatives.

Even when I lived in Japan, I owned a car: Japanese, of course, it was a Suzuki Alto Femina, which both sounds and drove like a feminine hygiene product, featuring pink racing stripes, pink hubcaps, and a 200-kilogram weight allowance. Yet whether it was driving a Japanese mini-pad or a German das auto, I’ve always loved the sensation of dropping it into first gear, cranking the stereo and taking off on a road to nowhere. Zoom-zoom.

So it should come as absolutely no surprise to fellow car and driving aficionados that I love the UK show, Top Gear. What does come as a surprise, to me at least, is that I only discovered it two years ago, courtesy of my Kiwi and Aussie mates.

At first, it sounded ridiculous: How is it that three wise-cracking Englishmen who sit around and talk about cars have a show on BBC with an estimated 350 million views per week in 170 different countries? I mean, seriously, how entertaining can a car show be? I had no idea until I started watching it. Incessantly.

The premise is simple: Each episode, Jeremy “How Hard Can It Be?” Clarkson, James “Captain Slow” May and Richard “The Hamster” Hammond test-drive everything from Bugatti Veyrons to Land Rovers, recap car news stories for the week, put a “Star in a Reasonably Priced Car” to see which celebrity can do the fastest lap, and generally embark on the most ridiculous and hilarious car challenges and stunts imaginable. And even things you couldn’t even begin to imagine, like making a train out of a 1989 Jaguar XJ and a couple of caravans or playing a game of car darts or trying to cross the English Channel in a homemade amphibious vehicle.

Once a year, there’s usually “A Big Film,” a special episode that has the boys trying to complete a series of challenges while traveling long distances across foreign lands. In 2007, it was the Polar Special, with Jeremy and James in a Toyota Hilux racing Richard in a husky-drawn sled to see who could reach the North Pole first. (J&J actually won, being the first people ever to get to the North Magnetic Pole by car.) In the 2008 Vietnam Special, the three were given eight days to make the 1,000-mile trek from Saigon to Halong Bay…via scooter.

And in perhaps my favourite episode ever, the Bolivia Special, the Top Gear team had to make another 1,000-mile trek, only this time from the middle of the Amazon rainforest to the Pacific coast of Chile. Their mode of transportation? Second-hand 4WD vehicles they bought sight-unseen from a Bolivian used car website.

During one part of the Bolvian episode, the three had to drive the North Yungas Road AKA El Camino de la Muerte AKA The Road of Death. It’s estimated that 200-300 people are killed along this road every year, ranking it as the world’s most dangerous road. And for this treacherous claim-of-death-fame, it’s also become a popular tourist attraction. In fact, it’s now considered one of the must-drive roads in the world, along with the Stelvio Pass in Italy and Transfagarasan in Romania, roads which have also been featured on Top Gear.

Over the years, I’ve also been extremely fortunate to drive on some of the great roads in the world: the Pacific Ocean Highway in California, the Autobahn in Germany, the Ring of Kerry in Ireland, the Milford Road in New Zealand, and of course the Cabot Trail in my own backyard of Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. And even though I wasn’t behind the wheel, it was two years ago this very week that I had the opportunity to journey along perhaps the most beautiful asphalt ever: Australia’s Great Ocean Road.

Stretching 243 kilometers along the southeastern coast of Australia between the cities of Torquay and Warrnambool, the Great Ocean Road is surf meets sky meets rainforest, with white sandy beaches, limestone rock formations, dramatic cliffs and koala bears around each and every turn. Absolutely jaw-droppingly incredible, majestic, magnificent. Truly it left me at a superlative loss.

The Great Ocean Road is so amazing that it really is worth getting up at 5:30am to make it to Melbourne’s St. Paul’s Cathedral for a 7:00am tour bus rendezvous; worth sitting on the bus for 70 minutes while 33 other tourists are picked up at hotels and hostels across the city; worth the meandering 90-minute drive to Torquay, the start of the Great Ocean Road; worth proceeding in a unending caravan of buses as you slowly make your way from Bells Beach to Lorne, Apollo Bay, the Maits Rest Rainforest Trail, Loch Ard Gorge and finally the Twelve Apostles of Port Campbell National Park; and yes, even worth arriving at my friend’s home at 11:17pm after an incredibly long bus and train ride back. It was worth the $95 for the tour, the $75 for the 15-minute helicopter ride over the Twelve Apostles, and even the $13.00 for the overcooked and oversalted Pad Thai from the Noodle Box in Colac to eat on the bus ride home.

Because regardless if you’re an infamous star of one of the most watched TV shows in the world, or a semi-Halifamous writer who’s incredibly sore after teaching five fitness classes in 35 hours, there are some roads that are definitely meant to be driven on. And be it by Lamborghini, Alto Femina or tour bus, sometimes, on those all-too-rare occasions, it really isn’t about the journey.

It’s the destination that counts. 

PS For more photos from the Great Ocean Road, check out my Facebook page "Life From A Broad." And while you're there, you may want to give it a thumbs up too. 

Please note: The following blog entry should be read in Morgan Freeman voiceover mode.

Exactly when did our peculiar love affair with the penguin begin? What is it about this flightless bird in particular that has us so enthralled? That when we see it in pictures or in person, we tilt our heads and say, “Awwww,” but upon first glance at a chicken, we open our mouths and think, “Roasted or pan-fried?”

Some may argue my movie March of the Penguins—Oscar winner and second-highest grossing documentary of all time—might have something to do with it. Certainly, it caused the Christian movement to embrace the bird in the tuxedo suit with open right-wings, saying penguins promote conservative, traditional family values. Which is ironic, since penguins also show “a commendable openness to sexual diversity that extends to gay parenthood.” Just ask the two male chinstrap penguins in Central Park Zoo who were in a relationship back in 2004 and trying desperately to hatch a rock. When sympathetic zoo-keepers gave them a pre-fertilized egg, the two love birds hugged it and squeezed it and successfully raised a healthy chick presumably called George, who incidentally also turned out to be gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

But penguins in love and our love of penguins are much more recent—check out today’s Bing.com home page—and go back much further then petting in Central Park and yet another commercial product featuring my dulcet tones. Ever since Chilly Willy first appeared alongside Woody Woodpecker in 1953, penguins have been romanticized (Danny DeVito notwithstanding) and, in turn, recognized for their money-making potential (except when Sidney Crosby is injured).

And as a result, penguins have been popping up all over the silver screen…like in Mr. Popper’s Penguins…and Surf’s Up…and Pingu, and Madagascar…and The Penguins of Madagascar…and Happy Feet, and Happy Feet Two—which might as well have been called Ocean’s Fourteen: Return of the Penguin King, since the cast included everyone from Brad Pitt and Matt Damon to Elijah Wood and Hugo Weaving. Even venerable industry mag Entertainment Weekly went so far as to rank “penguins” as the 56^th biggest hit of the past 10 years, saying, “Whether they were walking, dancing, or hanging ten, these oddly adorable birds took flight at the box office all decade long.”

Which would come as absolutely no surprise to the 7,000 or so permanent residents of Phillip Island who play host to an average of two million tourists a year in an area only 26 kilometers long and 9 kilometers wide. Located 90 minutes southeast of Melbourne, the island is the second most popular tourist attraction in all of Australia, and it’s due to the presence of a little penguin…26,000 Little Penguins, to be precise.

And out of those 2,000,000+ tourists who visit Phillip Island every year, at least 500,000 of them stay on the island at least until sunset, which is when the Penguin Parade begins. Cue “Begin the Penguine.”

Yes, at every sunset, hundreds and thousands of the world’s smallest penguins emerge from the rolling surf like the cutest flotsam and jetsam you ever did see. Battling waves, currents and sea predators, the three-apples-tall penguins eventually make their way onto the beach, only to be faced with a different kind of predator, one who is told repeatedly not to shoot. But for some, the temptation is just too much.

One wonders what long-term damage, if any, the flash from five Nikon cameras going off at any given time will have on the sensitive eyes of a penguin. If the signs posted every 30 feet are to be believed, “a bright, sudden flash or unusual light can frighten or disorientate a penguin.”   But hey, out of the thousand or so tourists sitting on the bleachers, there are only a handful of people who are doing it, so no harm, no fowl, right? Right? Riiiight.  

Because in this increasingly prolific world of eco-tourism, visiting animals in their natural—or unnatural—habitats can sometimes pose a bit of a moral quandary. Whether it’s chumming the waters off South Africa to go cage diving with great white sharks or sitting huddled on a bench with 999 other turistas as you wait for the penguin parade to start in the South of Australia, it does make one think.

And when you think about it, the whole experience is kind of like going to an all-inclusive resort in a country with a crumbling economy. You want to go, everyone who’s ever been there says you should go, and you know that your money will go to help resort staff take care of their own families—or in the case of the Phillip Island Nature Park, help park staff take care of a preserve and its little inhabitants. It’s what some people call a win-win.

But there’s a degree of guilt attached. That perhaps if you weren’t there in the first place, your help wouldn’t be warranted. You wouldn’t be occupying their space, and they in turn might not be occupying Wall Street. Or maybe not. Who knows? All I know—and I am Morgan Freeman after all, so I know that I sound like I know a lot—well, all I know is this:

Originally, the movie Happy Feet didn’t have much of an environmental message attached to it. It was more about a happy colony of dancing and singing penguins, and less about the commercial colonization and overfishing of the Antarctic. And it went on to become one of the most critically acclaimed and highest grossing animated films of the past 20 years, even winning an Oscar for Best Animated Film.

The studio powers-that-be immediately ordered a bigger-is-better, more environmentally focused, politically correct Happy Feet sequel, featuring larger budgets and increased star power. The Aussie director, George Miller, even launched a new state-of-the-art digital production studio in Australia so he could keep local talent at home and provide jobs and training. And as a result of all these carefully orchestrated, collaborative efforts to build on past successes, Happy Feet Two premiered November 18, 2011.

Exactly one week after the premiere, Reuters reported, “Due to the poor performance of Happy Feet Two, 600 of the 700 employees at the digital production studio behind the animated movie have reportedly received their walking papers.” Who’s happy now?

Please note: No pictures, using flash or otherwise, were taken of actual penguins during Morgan Freeman's visit to Phillip Island in January of 2010. 

Okay. Gotta say I’m really feeling the need to knock this week’s post out of the park—or at the very least, off the front lawn—since Life From A Broad just had a very recent brush with minor fame.

Three days ago my blog was briefly featured during the Microsoft Keynote Address at the Consumer Electronic Show in Las Vegas. (Long story, but suffice to say, they asked and I said, “Are you kidding me?”) I was still in a state of disbelief on the night of the big event, when I tried to watch the keynote live here in Halifax. But neither the laptop nor I could handle the pressure, and we both froze like deer in the proverbial headlights.

So yesterday, I finally worked up the courage to watch the video feed, and what an incredible, crazy, amazingly bizarre and wonderful experience to see my blog—THIS blog!—spread across the huge 20-foot screens at The Venetian Hotel while Tami Reller (Chief Marketing Officer and Chief Financial Officer, Windows at Microsoft) scrolled through my recipes to demonstrate some of the new apps for Windows 8. At one point, I even saw “Grandma Marie’s Corn Chowder” recipe fly across the screens. Her son would have been so proud had he known, but alas my gambling godfather Uncle Joe was playing the slots at The Flamingo, since he happened to be in Vegas that very same night.

I honestly had no idea the title of my blog would be so prevalent, nor what to expect from it, such as an interview with CBC Radio that aired yesterday. And I definitely didn’t expect the resulting thousands of hits to my site, from radio listeners here at home to computer geeks in places like Denmark and India and CL, which is the country code for Chile, in case you (and I) were wondering.    

This newfound wee bit of fame and brush with glory is enough to drive a girl to drink…which ties in perfectly with this week’s post, since two years ago to the day, I was once again driving a convertible and sipping my way around one of the best wine tasting regions in the world. Except instead of driving through California’s Napa Valley behind the wheel of a VW Cabriolet (see Archives: Wine vs whining), I was now zipping around Australia’s Margaret River courtesy of my good friends Tara and Justin (look right), who had leant me their Mazda Miata.

Now at this point in the journey, I had been staying with another lovely couple—Michelle and Andrew—at their fab new home in Melbourne for almost three weeks. In amongst all the trips to Wilson’s Promontory National Park, the Mornington Peninsula, the Yarra Valley, Jersey Boys and the gym, I thought it best to give my friends a much-deserved break, particularly from me.

So I bought a ticket and checked off two more things on my bucket list: Fly with Qantas and visit Perth. Although this was my third time in Australia, and even with living there for a year, I had never made it to the west coast, let alone flown its national airline that apparently counts John Travolta as one of its pilots. But with the substandard in-flight entertainment, patchy appearance and interesting smell, Qantas (not Travolta) was admittedly a letdown. Perth was not.

It was absolutely beautiful. Blue skies meet even bluer water, with nary a blue feeling to be found in Perth’s 1.7 million very happy inhabitants—well, except for the week before, when one of their own had been attacked by a shark at Cottesloe Beach. Presumably the shark was also blue. 

Certainly, English transplants Tara and Justin (and their teenagers Jess, Ellis and Hope) were extremely happy to now be living in Perth after years of slogging it in grungy gray London. I had initially met them on one crazy West Coast Express/Kiwi Experience bus tour in New Zealand back in 1991, and had managed to keep in very sporadic contact ever since. So when I popped out of the…wait for it…blue to see if I could pop by for a visit, the toga-party binds still held. They welcomed me with open arms and blow-up mattress in the den, and were amazing hosts, to the point of lending me their Miata for the three-hour drive to and the two-night stay in Margaret River. 

What a drive! What a trip! What a difference! If you’ll recall from my Wine vs whining post, Napa Valley was not exactly the best of times for me. Being a singleton in the North American capital of coupledom was tantamount to Catholic penance for having impure thoughts and drinking too much holy wine. I was like a pariah, a social leper, a-lone.

But in Margaret River, I was an oddity, an eccentric, a personality! My fellow tasters on the Bush Tucker Great Winery Tour—no, I’m not making that up—were amazed that I had sold my house, packed up two bags and had traveled by myself from Halifax, Nova Scotia (once I explained to them where that was: “just up the coast from New York”) and was now at the most southwesterly point in all of Australia. And that I planned to continue on this insane journey to wherever it led me: geographically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, drunkenly.

Because at this point, the wine and beer tasting had turned into chugging for some of the tour group, as the drinks were being poured too fast and not-so-furiously. EVERYONE wanted to drink with me…and perhaps do a little bit more with me. Yes, even one of the guys on the tour seemingly took a bit of a fancy to yours truly. Which could have been, umm, interesting, except for the fact that he was there with another woman “but we’re just friends,” a second woman on the tour was trying to make her own mark on him, and he was young enough to be my son if I had been an extremely promiscuous pre-pubescent.

When I mentioned that motherly fact to Steve, and by extension, the other two women, and by further extension the entire wine tour group—because at this point in the day’s “tasting” we had all promised to be the best of friends forever and even exchanged email addresses to prove that we really meant it this time—it started yet another unexpected reaction. He didn’t believe me. Nor did anyone else.

God love ’em, I found myself in the rather bizarre yet flattering position of having to produce not one, but two kinds of ID to prove that I was actually as old as I said I was. Mind you, I know it was the alcohol talking—and thinking—for my poor misguided drinking buddies, but I kept saying to them incredulously, “Why would I lie about my age?! If I did, wouldn’t I go younger, not older?!” I mean, the only time you ever claim to be older than what you really are is when you’re a 17-year-old trying to buy alcohol, or cheating on your social security forms.

Regardless, it was a happy ending to an amazing trip. The wines of Margaret River were, pour per pour, superior to Napa Valley. The scenery was jaw-droppingly stunning around every bend in the road. And the drive to and from—with rooftop down, and me singing at the top of my lungs to Michael Buble tunes while doing jazz hand routines as Aussie men honked and waved—was super-smashing-lovely-great. And even if it wasn’t exactly the kind of happy ending Steve was hoping for, it was exactly what I needed. 

So let the pictorial recap begin!

The week started—started—with a three-day tour of the world-famous Marlborough Wine District in New Zealand. Here Sue and I are at our first stop, Mud House Winery, where seven minutes after this photo was taken, I was offered a job at the winery. It was so tempting that I knew we had to get out of there fast or else I'd never make it to Italy.

Thank God—and the Clarkes again—because Sue's husband, Paul, had given us his Porsche 911 to use for the three-hour drive from Christchurch to Marlborough. And when I say "us" I mean "me," since I looove driving, whereas Sue, not so much. So I insisted, really more for her sake than mine, that I should drive the Porsche. It's what any good friend would do. 

You know, it really doesn't get any better. Touring around one of the most beautiful countries in the world, visiting wineries like Cloudy Bay, Saint Clair, Spy Valley and Hans Herzog, staying in a fantastic private cottage overlooking the vineyards, sharing a seven-course meal accompanied by wine pairings—and all done with your good friend by your side (as you drive her husband's Porsche). You can get so caught up with the scenery of hills and valleys, sea and sea lions, that when an exclamation point comes hurtling your way, it can catch you unawares. Really, anytime you see punctuation by the side of the road, it gives you reason to pause—comma—especially if you happen to be driving a wee bit past the speed limit.

It's times like these when you realize even though Canada and New Zealand have the same language, cultural norms and a propensity to put Queen Elizabeth II on our coins, there are still some innate differences. Nevertheless, New Zealand is much more similar to Canada than Australia, which is where I arrived two days after this exclamation point picture was taken! (Yes, I had finally purchased my round-the-world ticket out of Christchurch, New Zealand, and was now in my first port of call: Sydney, Australia.)

In fact, when you think about it, Canada and New Zealand are quite similar in that they're the quiet, polite, often-overlooked cousin to their louder, brasher and flashier relatives, the United States and Australia. Even our humour is similar: Canucks and Kiwis go for more ironic, subversive and British-style comedies, while the Yanks and Aussies are more over-the-top, visual, and almost slapstick in nature. They make TV shows like America's and Australia's Funniest Home Videos, whereas we would produce a comedy about a family's desperate attempts to have just one of their embarrassing moments shown on Canada's or New Zealand's Funniest Home Videos. If those shows existed. And we could get the government funding.

So if you're travelling and you meet someone who has a "North American" or an "Australian/New Zealander-sounding" accent, you can't go wrong by asking, "Are you from Canada?" or "Are you from New Zealand?" One, it will make the Canadians and Kiwis feel good and not have to say for the bizillionth time, "No, I'm not American/Australian. I'm from Canada/New Zealand." And two, it will give Americans and Australians a bit of a reality check, and make them think of their neighbours from time to time. 

But back to Australia...and Sydney...and Lana, who had just arrived in the 36 °C city after flying in from -52 °C Edmonton. And since Lana had shown me such amazing hospitality in Edmonton, the very first stop of this insane journey after selling my house in 2009, I was determined to show her the sights of Sydney, the very first place I lived after moving out of my parents' house back in 1990. So despite her jet lag and temperature shock, Lana forced herself to rally since we were flying to Melbourne in three days to spend the Christmas holidays with mutual friends. It's show (and tell) time!

And it really did become show time for our evenings in Sydney, as we managed to catch the opening of Avatar on the world's largest 3D screen on our first night, and then seeing the Broadway production of Wicked the following night. Truthfully, sitting down and watching people with blue and/or green faces for three hours were about the only things we could manage after days spent visiting places like the Sydney Opera House, Taronga Zoo, The Rocks and Circular Quay. Taking occasional breaks to sip champagne while overlooking the most beautiful harbour in the world, and then taking a ferry across the way to sip beer at The Oaks, my old stomping ground when I lived in the neighbourhood of Cremorne Point.

Hell, we even managed to visit my old home on Murdoch Street, which at the time had been dubbed "Canuck Castle," only by virtue there were seven Canadians (and one lone Brit) living in the two-bedroom flat. Because there were so many Canucks, and we had nothing else to put on the walls, I had hung my huge Canadian flag in the living room, but not before I had taken a picture of me with it in front of the Sydney Opera House. Which I did way back when I lived there in 1990...and which I'm doing in the 2009 picture you see to your left. 

Because that flag has accompanied me on every major world journey I've taken since living in Canuck Castle. It's like Arthur Dent's towel in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. You never knew when it might come in handy. 

Hark! Have no fear! This is not an explication of Chaucer’s ye olde magnum opus, although it could be since I still have my Grade 12 English paper on the symbolic role of the Wife of Bath in The Canterbury Tales. But rather than force you to learn/forget Middle English a second time around, here are a few tales about a city located in the province of Canterbury on the South Island of New Zealand. 

I first fell in love with Christchurch back in 1991 primarily due to a baked potato, which sounds insane unless you’re Italian. (The Italian gene makes you automatically love a locale based on the quality of its food.)   At the time, my friend Isabelle and I had been backpacking around Australia for almost a year, and everywhere we went, fellow backpackers would say, “You gotta go to New Zealand, you gotta go to New Zealand.” So on our way back to Canada, we included a one-month stopover in New Zealand. After doing all the pre-requisites—hiking the Franz Joseph Glacier, bungy jumping in Queenstown, shutting down every pub in Greymouth due to our bus tour group’s incredible beer-consumption abilities—we ended up in Christchurch.

And when you’re young and backpacking around the South Pacific in 1991 (or not as young and suitcase-toting around the world in 2009), you soon come to appreciate a great meal and a good deal. With its huge baked or “jacket” potatoes, variety of toppings, and reasonable prices, Christchurch’s lone jacket potato stand in Cathedral Square was the budget traveller’s go-to-eat spot of 1991. So much so that upon my return in 2009, it was like the original stand had given birth to tater tots, and ubiquitous potato stands were now blanketing the entire Square.

By the way, in writing this entry, I Googled “jacket potato stands” and unbelievably stumbled upon a vegan travel agent website, which mentions the jacket potato stands of New Zealand twice during their recommended 10-day tour of the country. (I guess there aren’t a lot of things for a vegan to do on the road, other than complain about the propensity of meat and its by-products.) So while I’m in italic-mode, can I also mention that the mere idea of a vegan travel agent—“The Entire World is Veganizable!”—is just plain wrong. Even if I wanted to travel the world vegan-style, or go vegan for 24 hours, as an Italian-Cape Bretoner, both my body and my family would revolt. I’d start to immediately exhibit poultry-withdrawal symptoms, and I’d be excommunicated by both sides of my family, leaving the Spagnoli-Benoit female cousins to battle over my Michael Kors leather jacket and Prada shoes.

Okay. Back to potatoes, or rather back to Christchurch, which was to be my home away from no-longer-my-home for the next couple of weeks, while I figured out what was going to be my home for the next couple of months…or even years. Yes, indeedy. I was now being forced into the one thing that I DIDN’T want to do for this entire trip: plan in advance. 

It seemed my preferred airline of Air New Zealand could only take me as far as Sydney. Once I landed in Australia, my flight options narrowed tremendously while the prices grew exponentially—especially since I was traveling with two 25-kilogram bags. For every new leg of my flight, I’d have to pay an extra $400 unless I wanted to scale down to one bag, and there’s no way that was going to happen. How in the hell do you travel the world in multiple climates with your workout gear, regular gear, electronic gear plus writing gear weighing in at 25-kilograms or less, AND still look reasonably fashionable enough to meet a man? Riddle me that!

So since one bag full or $400/bag weren’t viable options, I was left in the bag with only one option left: buy a round-the-world ticket out of Christchurch, New Zealand—basically as far away as you can get from Halifax, Nova Scotia, other than flying out of Antarctica. How did this happen? How was this going to end? And more importantly, where was I going to go?

It was now almost the middle of December, and I was due to meet Lana in Sydney in 10 days, which basically left a little over a week to plan the next year of traveling, and the only destination I had in mind was Italy. I NEVER plan this far in advance, let alone for this length of time—and yes, I know, that’s what got me into this predicament in the first place…and yes, I know, I’m an idiot. All I can say is thank God for the Clarke family and Danny Bodger.

If you’ve been reading my blog, you may remember that Sue and Paul Clarke were good friends from the years when we lived in Japan together. Now they were back living in Christchurch with their two young children, Sammy and Gia—and I ended up living in their camper trailer in the backyard.

It was awesome, just like my own private campground in the city! When I wasn’t looking at maps of the world, or going to the gym, or doing more groceteria-based research, or punting on the Avon with the Clarkes, I’d be crashed out in the trailer, reading old novels or trying to repack my bags for the eighteenth time, all by the glow of an electric Coleman light, which Paul had hooked up. I was as snug as a bug in a rug (minus the bugs), so once again, thank you Sue and Paul and Sammy and Gia for putting me up…and putting up with me.

And then there was Danny Bodger from the Canterbury Flight Centre, who became a new Kiwi friend by default, since he happened to be working when I first walked through the doors of the non-vegan travel agency on Sunday…then Monday…then Tuesday…It just went on and on and on, because I was trying (in many ways) to plan exactly where to go for the next year. With my round-the-world ticket, I could only go west, I only had 15 stops total on four continents, and I couldn’t backtrack or change any destination once I paid my ticket. DO YOU HAVE ANY FRICKIN’ IDEA HOW HARD THAT IS?

Thank God, again, for Danny. His unending patience and good humour was phenomenal. I’m sure he groaned inwardly every time he saw me walk through the door, but outwardly he never skipped a beat. And over the next eight days, what started out as "spin the globe and see where your finger lands" quickly developed into an actual itinerary decided by friends in low (and high) places, the expansion of the healthy chocolate market into Asia and some writing on the wall. Literally. 

But before I chose my final I-really-mean-it destinations, I decided a drink was in order, since it's been scientifically proven to help all Italian-Cape Bretoners in any decision-making process. Surely I'd be able to get a nice glass of wine in New Zealand somewhere...