So it all happened on a Friday, a Good Friday to be precise. Nah, fuck it - a Great Friday to be even more precise..

I never understood the significance of this holiday for Catholics and Christians, having been raised of a different faith myself. I believe it was the day Jesus died by crucifixion, with Easter Sunday commemorating his legendary resurrection. All I know for sure is that any Friday is Good when it is considered a national holiday, a much-needed break for many North American inhabitants who managed to survive yet another cold and snowy winter. In a way, this Friday marked the crucifixion of the goose-down jackets, relegated deep into the bowels of our closets, and the resurrection of the much lighter, nimbler and more stylish windbreakers and leather bombers. Spring was in full tow, and being that this would mark my first full warm weather season in a new city, I figured I was obliged to kick it off with a bang.  And oh did we ever kick (and push) it off.

Over the past couple of years or so, I have been on a quest, a long and winding journey where my lone goal has been to learn and absorb as much about the world as I possibly can. I recently decided to label myself as a sort of traveler, my full-time profession dedicated to roaming, adventuring and testing all limits and bounds of my capabilities and those of my environment.  On the side, in order to finance this voyage, I have been able to find a bunch of decently paying jobs that take up only minimal parts of my weeks and require no restrictive commitments (40 hrs a week constitutes a measly 24% of my weekly hour budget). During this story, my part-time gig entailed moonlighting as an accountant for a large firm located in downtown Toronto. Yes, I said my part-time gig. People consider that type of job a career, but not me. Let me go off on a tangent here and provide you with a little anecdote. Living in a big city, the first question you usually get asked by a stranger who has taken an interest in you for some reason (for me, usually because of my charm) tends to hover around what line of work you are in. I remember one afternoon, after trading in my dressed pants and shirt for some worn jeans and a baseball cap, wandering into an Italian bakery, Forno Cultura, located on the basement floor of an old brick-faced building. Through the long windows peering out onto the busy street, all I saw were freshly baked loaves of bread and pastries, with 2 pretty ladies serving them to a host of satisfied customers. Naturally, I strolled through the glass door, down the wooden steps and was greeted with warm smiles and hypnotizing odours. I inquired as to what was the “piece de resistance” of this holy temple of all things Italian, and was presented with a sample of their freshly prepared biscotti. Pure and simple, crunchy and moist, all at once. A reminder of the beauty of a meticulously prepared cookie, twice-baked to perfection as it always has been since its inception in the Tuscan motherland. I decided to order some coffee to go along with this treat, and was offered to try their café latte. I noticed the barista’s Latin pronunciation of the drink, and decided I would try my luck and practice my Spanish (more on that later). She turned out to be an Italian speaker, with the beautiful name of Giovanna. We exchanged a few pleasantries in Español as she artfully crafted my warm beverage. Being late in the evening, she asked me if I had just gotten off work. That’s when it hit me. I had technically just gotten off work, but I had also just started my second shift roaming the city on my bike. So I answered: “No, well my real job is just starting. I just moved to the city and have made it my full-time duty to explore it and learn it.” She immediately appreciated the answer, and conceited never having received such a response before. Giovanna was also kind enough to share with me her favourite parts of town, most of which I had yet to venture into. It was the first time I had ever realized what my job really was. Hey, maybe it was the half of a joint I had smoked an hour earlier, but I felt so much lighter after that moment, as if I had discovered a part of myself I never knew existed, as if I had experienced an epiphany.  And I had. I realized that I was only contractually obliged to “work” on average 8 hours a day. I was blessed with over 120 hours per week to undertake any new challenge or master any new skill. If I were to follow Malcolm Gladwell’s infamous theorem, 80 weeks of this regime dedicated to one discipline would turn me into the next great virtuoso. Time is our greatest asset on this earth, and we have only been bestowed a certain amount. We cannot (as of yet) manufacture any more it, nor can we lose or destroy it. Heck, we still barely understand it, but our duty as humans is to learn how to master this precious gift, for it is the main ingredient of life and creation.  Patience and wisdom, to a name a couple, are some of the miraculous by-products that come with time. So, having inherited this treasure, I began investing it in things that required practice and patience. Activities that required numerous trials and (mostly) errors, excessive experimentation and constant refinement. Complete immersion and focus, getting into a flow where nothing in the world matters but the simple task at hand. Whether riding a bike, skipping rope, cooking up a new meal, roasting my own coffee, learning a new language, picking up an instrument, tending to a plant or a garden, meditating, trying new dance moves, holding a handstand, boarding down a mountain covered in fresh snow, working on my jump shot, swinging a racquet or a club, writing a song or a poem or short story (like this). Activities such as these require constant presence. There are no distractions. No phones, no internet, no television, no alarms, no schedules. Just jamming to the rhythm of the keys.

A couple of weeks earlier, I had been contemplating ingesting a certain controlled substance with a buddy of mine, Slick, whom I’d recently met at work. I’m talking about mushrooms. And no, not the kind you add to your omelettes or slap on the grill (unless you’re just that crazy). I’m talking about the magical hallucinogenic fungi that strap you in and take you on a ride through space and back. It had come up in conversation a few times and we had both flirted with idea of taking some together. Mushrooms are a polarizing drug, as you tend to hear so many different accounts from so many different people. Some nightmarish, some just pure bliss. People trip out and want it to end, others are taken on a spiritual journey where their minds are opened up to a new a light. It all depends on the person, so naturally I was curious to find out. Being a traveler, and shrooms being a trip on its own, I felt obliged to find a way to get my hands on some. Luckily, Slick scored a batch from a contact in the farmlands a few hours south of the city, where the choicest of cattle grazed freely on the greenest of pastures. He was told that these some of the purest mushrooms available in the province and he had been working earnestly to secure a shipment. The plan was for us to meet up and take them, but that had been a challenge since our schedules were different. We had bonded over our common interests, food, sports, girls and weed, and had been planning to hang out for months already but it never seemed to work out. Although unable to link up in the city we both lived in, we had roomed together on a company ski trip to Colorado in early March, where we got the chance to shred to some fresh Rocky Mountain powder. Having picked up snowboarding only a couple of years back, it was a great experience for me and only intensified my passion for the sport. There is rarely a feeling better than standing atop a peak nearly 13000 feet above sea level, having an unobstructed 360-degree view of the surrounding Rockies. Also, marijuana being “legal” in that state, we figured we would finally get to share a joint and chill. Wrong. Timing wasn’t right again. Not a big deal, since simply being in the Colorado sunshine and gliding down the side of a mountain left me more than high on life. Neither of us were complaining. So when he finally got his hands on the shrooms, we couldn’t waste this opportunity. It had to happen this time. He had even secured a crop of the elusive “Girl Scout Cookies” strand of marijuana, much sweeter than any of those boxes they used to sell door to door. But, again, our schedules clashed. He ended up sampling the treats with some old friends, and needless to say he was beyond satisfied with his decision. He told me stories, all of them related to positive experiences. One friend, a rather larger individual, was overcome with a fit of laughter so intense he woke up the next morning with a sore stomach. “I have never seen a grown man that big giggle so hard and for so long in my life”, he said. Obviously, I needed to get my hands on some, but that meant having to recruit another fellow soldier to join me in this task. I contemplated asking my cribmate, the homie B-money, but I knew he would be too skeptical, especially on such short notice. He was a much more calculated individual than I was, rarely experimenting with the unknown. I decided to ask another friend I had in the city, Mongo, whom I’d met in another life when we both used to live in the beautiful city of Montreal. Reunited after a few long years, we had begun to kick it on the regular, getting in solid lifts in the gym, and discussing life’s important questions and mysteries over a meal and a joint. Much to my relief, I did not have to ask Mongo more than once. He was also sleeping on my couch for the week while waiting to get the keys to his new place, so I doubt he would have been able to decline the offer. Excited, I made arrangements with Slick to provide me with the goods on the Thursday, one day before the holy crucifixion. We met in the lunchroom of our office around 2:30pm that day, after all the regulars had filtered out. Out of his little blue lunch bag which was packed with Greek yogurt, fresh berries, granola and hemp seeds (dude was a health nut!), he reached in and pulled out an oddly shaped package wrapped in a plastic bag. I took a little peek inside, and saw a vacuum-sealed bag containing the shrooms and a little paper ball. “Watch out, make sure this shit doesn’t open at your desk or else you’re fucked. There’s some stinky chronic in there too so it smells stroooong. Be careful.” Those were my strict instructions, so I was careful to stash the bag discreetly in my cubby, next to my desk. He also gave me some tips on how much to take and what supplies I should have handy: “I took around 6 grams and was flying, so go for around the same amount and you’ll be good. Also, roll a couple of spliffs. Very key. Keeps you on a nice vibe. Oh, and snacks too. You’ll need them.” Great advice, from a great man.

Recall earlier how I spoke about learning new skills and undertaking exciting challenges. Well, since my return from Colorado, I had decided that I would put more focus into mastering the sport of snowboarding. My voyage in Keystone marked the first trip I had ever taken where the majority of my time abroad was dedicated to the sport, having only picked it up 2 years prior. Since then I vowed to become better and not simply be content with continuously falling on my ass every time I carved down the hill. Being the end of March and ski season pretty much wrapped up, I had to find a way to be able ride a board in the off months. Not having the luxury of catching waves by the beautiful shores of Maui, I’d have to settle for something more… dry. Already an avid road cyclist, I wasn’t prepared take it one step further to ride dirt paths down big rocky cliffs, so I decided I would take up longboarding instead. I had always been a fan of the boarding culture growing up, the “riding” culture. Bicycles, motorcycles, skiing, snowboarding, surfing, skating, rollerblading, cars, boating, jet-skiing, wake boarding. Just ridin’. Zooming in and out of traffic, carving down the back bowl of a mountain, skipping along the still lake waters, changing directions on a dime on the ice. Heck, even tobogganing down hills as a kid was a blast. Nothing better than feeling that flow, almost weightless in time, where gravity and your momentum are doing the tango in the space around you. I lived for those moments. Always pushing the limits. Always improving. But there was one sport I could never be brave enough to pick up yet loved watching: skateboarding. Having been introduced to Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater (nothing better than that first ramp in the warehouse level) and the Xgames at a young age, I grew up idolizing all the big names of that era. Starting with Mr. 900 himself Tony Hawk, perched at the top as the namesake states it, the amount of quality riders was endless. And man, were they fearless. Bob Burnquist, Eric Koston, Bucky Lasek, Kareem Campbell (inventor of the “Ghetto Bird”), P-Rod, Rob Dyrdek (do work son!). Those are just the ones I can recall of the top of my dome. I was always too scared to get on a skateboard and learn to fly like those guys, so as a kid I lived vicariously through them. They had such a style and swagger that seemed so effortless. Calm, cool and laid back. Then came the movie documenting the rise of the legendary Z boys, the pioneering group of surfers who decided to treat the pavement as they did the massive waves on the California shores and use it as their playground. They turned skating into a sport and into an expression of art, and from there it simply took off. I got my first glimpse of the longboard culture through the scenes in the movie, but never acted on the impulse. That is, until I started snowboarding. When you’re gliding down the side of a hill, nothing in the world matters. The cold wind smacking your face, the trees rushing by, the snow crunching beneath your board as you carve edge to edge. I began to realize why these guys were so mellow, and I needed to find a way to incorporate that balance in more aspects of my life. At first, I struggled mightily on the slopes, but I stuck with it. I never took any lessons, nor even bothered buying a helmet. I was constantly tweaking my stance and feeling the mountain. During my second winter of boarding, I travelled to San Diego, visiting an old friend, Nate Dogg, who was on a student-exchange at the State university in the city. He was living in an apartment with 3 California locals who had adopted the beautiful campus as their new home for the next 4 years. Piedra del Sol was the name of the complex they lived in, and yes, she was as beautiful as she sounded. It was spacious, with 4 separate bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a nice sized kitchen, eating area and living room. They even had a spacious balcony over looking a busy school street, where students would pass at all hours. Located between the Division 1-grade athletics complex and the main campus library, there was never a dull moment. They made it a game of hollering at the passer-by’s 2 stories below, whether trying to flirt with the beautiful ladies or tossing down cold beers for willing soldiers. Since school was still in session, me and my fellow traveler (and longtime homie) Jarvis were left to wander around campus while the 4 fellas hit the books during the daytime. One morning, we decided to walk the main path into the heart of the campus in search of food. As we strolled, I began to notice something almost immediately: boarders. Everywhere. The paths were smooth and softly inclined towards the main buildings and the riders took full advantage. Skateboards, longboards and some mysterious tiny-shaped board, which seemed to come in all sorts of whacky colours. “Penny” boards, as they were called, were small and zippy, good for making quick little cuts in order to avoid oncoming students. I was in love. During my university days, my commute to class involved sitting on a train or waiting in traffic behind the wheel of my old Corolla. No wonder I skipped so many damn lectures! Later that day we met Nate’s roommates, some of the nicest people I’ve ever come across. There was Stef, a tall, lanky, goofy fellow (some mix of European descent, I believe a hint of German and English) with scraggly blonde hair. A business student with hopes of making it as a lawyer. Then there was TK, a short dude with All-American good looks and the most perfect white teeth I had ever seen. Not to mention he was on his way to becoming a speech pathologist. And rounding out the crew was Dane-O, the prototypical Californian. A sponsored pro-am surfer who was trying to earn a degree on the side. One day he took us along with him for one of his surf sessions at the nearby La Jolla beach. We watched in awe from the sand as he shredded a few decent waves. After a while we lost sight of him, so we decided to roam around the beach. The landscape was breathtaking, with the water to the West, the pier to the North, rows of sun-kissed beach houses longing the sandy shores along the East side, and a big mansion perched atop a cliff to the South. While waiting in the parking lot for Dane-O, we happened to come across one of the most beautiful girls any of us had ever seen. To this day I still stand by that statement. She pulled up in a weathered Jeep Wrangler, hopping out with style and grace as she headed to the trunk. Her wetsuit was covering her shapely lower half, with a bikini (barely) handling the top. Her soft skin sported a natural California tan, almost glowing in the setting sun. Her dirty blonde hair was blowing with the light breeze, thick and luscious from its healthy diet of sunshine and fresh ocean water. I never even got a look at her face, but seeing her silhouette from a distance as she effortlessly slipped into her wetsuit was all I needed. From that moment on, I realized that if I wanted to be able to find a woman like her, I needed to learn how to ride.

After work that day, I was already buzzing. A long weekend coming up, a bag full of magical toadstools, and plenty of time on my hands. I caught up with Mongo for a couple drinks at a nearby bar and informed him of my score. Needless to say, he was pumped up. At the bar, we met one of Mongo’s old school friends, Em. They had been classmates at the illustrious Queen’s University in the small town of Kingston, and had decided to link up since they were once again reunited in the same city. Unable to bear the amount of people in suits crammed into the bar (3$ afterwork special in the financial district, Asians everywhere), we decided we would head out to meet some more of their fellow Gaels at a familiar outpost of the downtown Toronto scene, Sneaky Dee’s. On our way there, I happened to run into an old friend, June, whom I had known from my days in Montreal. We both played water-polo for the same club, and she happened to date one of my old childhood friends during that time as well. It had been at least over 2 years since our paths had crossed, so it was a pleasant surprise for both of us, allowing us to exchange digits in hopes of meeting for a bite to eat or a coffee in the near future and catching up on lost time. Once at Sneaky’s, we were greeted by a much more welcoming environment and less pretentious crowd. There was graffiti everywhere, the wooden tables and benches clearly had seen better days, and.  rock music poured out of the speakers. A true dive bar experience. Drinks and food were flowing at our table, as were the stories. Beer, nachos, wings, fries and ribs to go along with one guy’s retelling of how he needed two metals plates in his arm to fix a broken bone suffered while biking in Switzerland. If I remember correctly, he was zipping down a busy street when he noticed passer-by’s needing directions. He obliged, giving them detailed instructions while never breaking striding. As this was all done while he was still rolling, he had taken his eyes off the road for a split second, causing a massive tumble. Can’t blame the guy for trying to help! After that was done, we hopped in a cab and jetted off to Em’s pad for some more chilling. The cabbie who brought us there was a very friendly Jamaican man named Kingston. We exchanged some pleasantries as he fiddled with his CD player. Once he settled on an album, he hit play, and all of sudden smooth reggae tunes began pouring out of the speakers, through an unfamiliar voice. Being an avid fan of that style of music (and life), I inquired as to whom this mystery musician was. Lucky Dubé was the man. Native of South Africa, he had been pumping out soulful tracks since the 1980’s. A great man, his life had apparently come to a screeching halt last year when he was shot by his wife. Women.. am I right? Satisfied to have just discovered a new reggae artist I could deeply explore, I couldn’t help but ask Kingston one final question: who was his favourite artist? Without even flinching, he replied: “Bob.The king. The legend.” As the car pulled up to Em’s building, I thanked him for the history lesson and paid him his fare. Once upstairs, we sipped on some of her “leftover” alcohol (which included Hennessy, 4 different types of beer, Grey Goose, wine AND Tanqueray) and sampled some of her freshly baked cookies all while listening to some tunes. Someone was then kind enough to spark a nice joint, as we all gathered on the 20th floor balcony to take in the fresh spring night air. Luckily, there also happened to be a guitar handy. We all took turns playing and singing along, adding beats with whatever makeshift instruments we could find. Mongo even dropped some solid verses, freestyling on a beat consisting of a smooth guitar and hand-drumming on the metal table. He was flowing, stringing together lines easier than Charlotte in her web. Eventually the party died down, and we all headed back home. I had my bike with me so I was able to take advantage of a nice downhill coast back to my place near Queen’s Quay. I got home around 4:00am and passed out with a smile on my face, excited for the day of fun ahead of me. I knew then that when I woke up, it was going to be a special Friday. Much like Chris Tucker said to Ice Cube back on those front steps in South Central, L.A., I muttered to myself: “It’s Good Friday. You ain’t got no job. You ain’t got shit to do!”

        It’s funny how timing works. How things seemingly fall into place at the right moment. How haphazard social interactions with complete strangers can trigger large ripples in the sea of your life. How impulse decisions that seem nothing more than benign can end up taking you on a journey through places you never imagined ever being dragged to. All can change in an instant. All your most intricate plans can be laid to waste in the blink of an eye. So why do we waste so much time trying to predict the future? Why do we feel the need to forecast every little damn detail so as to give ourselves the illusion of omnipotence and clairvoyance in matters over which we clearly haven’t the slightest control? No one knew the Macarena was going to sweep us off our feet. No one predicted neckties would become the symbol of modern professionalism. Most people would laugh if you told them there would be as many LED-lit half-bitten apples on personal computers and desktops than there would be actual fresh apples growing on trees in the 21st century. But that’s just the way shit goes. We have no idea where we will be in 40 years, so why worry about saving time and money for some perfect ideal of an early retirement. What the fuck is retirement anyways? Society has created this model of mediocrity, where we must all work consistently until we are 63.4576 years of age while complying with many other strict policies in hopes of securing a nice sum of money to supplement our flaying flesh and bones as we wilt through our final years on Earth. Companies offer enrolments in pension funds and stock options. Banks market their mutual funds, TFSAs, RRSPs (also know as: “Prison vaults that trap your money in a vice-grip”). The company’s value stays high as employee contributions provide a buffer against adverse market conditions. Banks sit on your reserves, hiding them from you through a veil of laws and rules that if violated will trigger a whole army of fees and taxes that will eventually crumble your dreams of jetting off to Belize and living out your final days on a beach. They are free to do as they please with your money as it sits there, greedily handing it to unqualified lenders, investing in offshore commodities and derivatives, or dishing out billions to maintain their flawless images through meticulously crafted advertising campaigns. “Banking can be this comfortable!”, “Make the BMost of it!”. Having worked on the retail side of banking in my youth, I know how crooked the system is. They don’t care about your future. They don’t even care about their own. All they want to do is make a quick buck, however possible. They will smile at you and exchange friendly banter while having one hand in your back pocket at all times. As an employee you are not trained on how the financial system and economy works as a whole, rather you are taught how to deliver excellent customer service to all clients and potential investors. How to smile, how to shave, what to say, what to wear (neckties!). They don’t care if you can’t tell the difference between an asset-backed security and a futures contract. Priority is placed on learning how to use the operating system efficiently and how to sell. Sell, sell, sell. Chequing accounts, saving accounts, bill payments, pre-authorized transfers, overdraft, credit cards, credit limits, mutual funds, mortgages, lines of credit. Clients are simply bogeys that you must target with your shotgun, using these products as ammunition. As a teller you’re given targets, quarterly goals that must be reached in order to meet branch performance standards. Both in terms of sales and customer service. If you exceed your goal by “x” amount, you’re invited to a fancy dinner with district heads of your region. If you maintain this pace yearlong, you would then qualify for some exclusive club, where you receive an all-expense paid vacation somewhere down South. Since the emphasis was placed on quantity and not quality, shortcuts were being taken at all levels. Everyone did it. From the management to the advisors to the tellers. Forging signatures, upgrading accounts, increasing limits and changing the fee structures while never telling the customers, opening fake safety deposit boxes, stealing cash. No one cared about setting up a sound retirement fund for you. A survey company would call clients after their branch visits and inquire as to how their service experience was. If they were to respond “extremely likely” to any of their questions, the employee who had served the customer would receive points towards their goal, and the branch would also earn a bump in performance. Knowing the trigger word (“extremely”), branch managers would entice, nay force us to have a conversation after every transaction with a client whereby we would ask them how their service was, and prime their brains by throwing out the word “extremely” like it was candy in hopes of anchoring the term in their memory should they be called by our survey agency. At year end, some made-up company publishes rankings for banks based on their “excellent” (evil cousin of “extremely”) customer service. According to some dude named J.D. Power, my former employer has been toping the charts in all categories for 5 years running. That was the retail banking life. The front lines of these so-called pillars of our economy. The same companies who encourage you to invest with them in order to secure your future. We use their products every day. They are one of the most successful businesses of our generation. We lean on them more and more every second. Money has slipped from our grasp and has turned into some sort of abstract formula, coded numbers on a screen rather than heavy coin in our purse. Everything is done through systems, rather than through physical interaction. I could buy something in Libya, from my couch in Monaco, through a router in Spain, whose modem is catching a signal from Iceland, and then sell it for a sweet profit to a local salesman in Colombia. A long way from a firm handshake and locked gaze, one that lingers for as long as necessary as each party tries to gauge one’s honesty. Bankers were once honest and respected people. My father was one of them. Early in the 1970’s, he was once a manager for a small local bank in Qatar which dealt with some very wealthy people in the Gulf area. He knew all of his clients, personally. But once you try to stretch your empire to a global scale simply for reasons of greed, the essence of your initial modus operandi dissipates with every inch you grow. Corporations try to correct these misalignments by implementing standardization and compliance procedures. Standardization and compliance. Two of my least favourite words in the entire english language. Made up words that simply mean: “Shut up. Do as I say.” They try to treat every situation with the same set of rules, which is nearly impossible. Certain criteria do not apply to certain scenarios. That’s just the way the world works. It’s random. Shit happens for no good reason sometimes, and sadly we as humans cannot rationalize this fact. We have this god-like complex where we think we can predict the future, where we can forecast every specific outcome. Statistics and probabilities and regressions and models and graphs. These tools are like a psychic fortune teller’s crystal ball. Yet, one occupies lofts in Ivory Towers, while the other has been relegated to novelty item status on Dollarama shelves. Is there really that big of a gap between the two? What’s the difference between a weatherman, an equity analyst, and a palm-reader? They all rely on patterns. And they’re all wrong most of the damn time. So why do we need them? Because we’re scared. We’re all inherently insecure little babies who need someone of a higher power or status to tell us that everything is going to be okay. With each generation we become weaker and weaker, unable to make a choice for ourselves. I mention this because it has seeped so far into our system that we cannot even handle our own finances anymore. We need to rely on these made-up gurus to iron all of our wrinkly 20 dollar bills and turn them into some nice fancy treasure that we’ll only be able to touch in 35 years, all the while they skim the fresh crema off the top of the cup every year through a web of fees. Like I started this little interlude, it’s funny how timing works. My eyes were slowly opened every other day I showed up to work for one of these institutions. It all became clear to me. I, who had just completed a university degree in finance, who had just passed the rigourous first level examination of the coveted CFA Institute, a prominent standard of intellectual credibility in the field of financial analysis. Without this experience, I would never have been able to dodge the bullet that was heading straight for my soul. I would never have been able to save myself from the depths of greed and gluttony that I would slowly drown in. They say you learn more from your mistakes. There’s some proof for ya.