Canadians know that any country sitting in the shadow of a more popular neighbour is often overlooked.   Spare a thought for Slovenia, that small nation in Central Europe within sight – quite literally – of Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia.  While international visitors to Europe might beeline to nearby Venice or Milan, Salzburg, Budapest or even Zagreb, many would be hard pressed to locate Ljubljana on the map, much less be able to pronounce it.  Slovenia lacks the attention of its more famous neighbours, but discovering its historical capital, frosted peaks, glimmering lakes and lush countryside, it’s clear this modest nation can compete with all of them.   

With its central location and abundant natural beauty, Slovenia was considered a prize territory for the conquering armies of Rome, Austria-Hungary, Croatia, Germany, Serbia, Italy, and finally, the Communists who incorporated it into Yugoslavia. Claiming its independence with an impressive lack of political turmoil in 1991, Slovenia officially joined the European Union in 2004, adopting the euro but keeping its identity intact.  The nation of two million people has quietly got on with the business of becoming one of the most prosperous, stable, and successful of all the post-Soviet states.  It frequently ranks among Europe’s best economies, scores big in lifestyle indexes, and it really wants you to not confuse it with Slovakia, a different (and take it from me, less impressive) country altogether.

​As I wander the streets and canals of old Ljubljana (say it with me: Yoo-bli-yana), I’m reminded of Copenhagen, Stockholm and Budapest.  Yet Ljubljana feels cleaner and more civilized than those capitals, immaculately maintained with arty cafes, old world architecture, copper Church steeples, ample bike lanes and manicured parks.  Locals roam about, stylishly dressed in that casual, modern European manner of looking fantastic without much effort.  I take care not to trip on the city’s polished cobblestone for fear of cutting myself on those striking Slavic cheekbones.  Students bike across the Games of Thrones-ish Dragon Bridge and distinctive Triple Bridge, the public art is impressive, and even the urban graffiti is tasteful. Overlooked by the 900-year-old Ljubljana Castle, the capital is a template for any great European capital, with half the tourists. 
 
I expect to find more visitor’s at Slovenia’s premier tourist attraction, historic Lake Bled.  Sitting at the foothills of the towering Julian Alps, you might have seen images of the lake on screensavers or Instagram or any platform hoping to illicit a ‘wow, where the hell is that?’ response.  It had taken me less than an hour to drive the smooth highway from Ljubljana, and ‘WOW’ got cap-locked when Lake Bled came into view.  Framed by mountains and thick forest, the placid, emerald-coloured water has a small island in the centre with a notable European landmark.  The gothic Church of Mary the Queen was first consecrated in the twelfth century, and restored to its current state in the seventeenth century.  “Europe,” as Eddie Izzard remarks, “where History comes from.”  Long before the island became a site of Christian pilgrimage, it was a cult centre for Slavs to worship the Goddess of Love and Fertility.  Fittingly, couples flock from around Europe for destination weddings in one of several grand lakeside hotels, the remains of former royal palaces. Tradition holds that grooms must carry their bride up ninety-nine steps to the chapel, and ring the famous bell three times for good luck.  Judging by the strain I see on the flummoxed faces of several men, carrying anyone up ninety-nine steep steps and then ringing a heavy bell is more difficult than it appears.  The rest of us will just fall in love with the warm, azure water, four-hundred-year-old rowboat transportation (called pletnas), lovely ambiance and a location so striking you’d think it had been airbrushed onto the cover of a romance novel.  

​Visitors to Slovenia often complain they should have allotted more time.  More time to explore the notably affordable all-season mountain resorts.  More time to hike, fish, bike, raft, and enjoy the country’s abundant outdoor splendor.   More time to visit Lipica, the ‘cradle of the race’ of the unicorn-white Lipizzaner horse that have dazzled dressage events for centuries.  More time for show caves, the world’s deepest underground canyon, the robber-thief Predjama Castle, or visits to old churches and abbeys.    The country is compact and easy to get around, English is widely spoken, and the local cuisine draws heavily on the best traditions of its neighbours:  outstanding beer influenced by Hungary; pizza, gelato and coffee by Italy; schnitzels and pastries by Austria.  
 
Yes, we know all about living in the rain shadow of a more famous country that soaks up the world’s attention.  This is why Canadians will particularly appreciate that quiet, overlooked and underrated Slovenia might just be the most enticing country in all of Europe – east, west,  and otherwise.  

Wouldn't it be fun to go on a bucket list adventure with some of Canada's top photographers, explorers and travel journalists?   Yes, it would. 

I'm delighted to become a Royal Canadian Geographic Travel Ambassador, continuing the great work of this illustrious society to promote the natural and cultural wonders of Canada.   This means I'll be hosting select, exclusive trips that tick my own storytelling and adventure boxes, and belong on anyone's Canadian Bucket List as well.   

Working with fantastic companies and brilliant guides, I'll be enhancing your experience with stories, advice, support, a bucket list presentation, and the knowledge you're indeed enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.  

August 23 - 30, 2022:  Prince Edward Islands Culinary Delights by Bike
Cycling across PEI is pure bucket list: incredible scenery, spectacular coastline, literary and Indigenous history, and the best seafood on the planet.   Foodies and adventurer's rejoice!   This amazing itinerary combines it all together, as our bags are shuttled ahead to lovely inns and lodges, and our carefully curated itinerary delivers the best experiences on the island.  The terrain is mostly flat, and you can even choose to do this week-long trip on an e-bike.    I've been working with Ottawa-based Great Canadian Trails for years, and they've perfected the art of a quality, bucket list outdoor Canadian experience.   It's going to a blast, culminating with a stay, farm tour and feast at rockstar Chef Micheal Smith's countryside inn.   Click here for information, and bring an appetite! 

August 24 - 30 / August 31 - September 4, 2023:  Discovering Banff by Horseback
Discovering one of the world's most spectacular alpine landscapes on a 6-day horse ride, staying in luxury yet rustic backcountry lodges, sharing wild stories with fine wine by the crackling fireplace, SIGN ME UP!   They did, which is why I'll be hosting two trips in partnership with the fantastic Banff Trail Riders. We'll be riding along a historic pack trail and up Allenby Pass, crossing jagged rock formations and hitting altitudes above 8000 feet.   Mountain air, bubbling rivers, wildflowers, soaring peaks, and a great chance t encounter wildlife along the way.  Let's tick this one off the bucket list together.  Click here for more information and giddy up! 

Can Geo Adventures are working with fantastic tour operators and other fine Travel Ambassadors to showcase the very best adventures across the country.    Check them out, and I hope to see you on the road!

​In a tiny room, crammed with gadgets and monitors, sits a small button.  24 hours a day, an officer monitors the equipment, awaiting a single phone call.   On orders, he places a key into a slot, and turns clockwise.   Punching in an access code, he takes a breath, and pushes the small white knob.  In just over half an hour, a missile carrying a payload of ten thermonuclear warheads hits multiple targets in the United States.    In the ensuing carnage, each warhead vaporizes an area of 200 square kilometres, along with every living creature inside it.   Millions die instantly, millions more slowly from the release of deadly radiation.   Life as we know it ceases to exist, as thousands of similar missiles criss-cross the skies seeing their targets.  All it takes is one push of the button, located in a control room 33-metres below the Ukrainian countryside.   My finger draws near.   My hand starts to shake. ​

Before its independence in 1991, Ukraine had more nuclear missiles than any other country outside the United States and Russia.   Strategically and secretly distributed throughout the countryside, missile units were surrounded by armed guards, 3000-volt electric fences, and protected from attack in deep underground bunker silos built to survive a nuclear war.   With the collapse of the Soviet Union, the newly autonomous nation of Ukraine chose to become a nuclear-weapon free zone, and with US support, dismantled its missiles and bases.   Today, just three and half hours drive outside of Kiev near the town of Pervomaisk, the legacy of Armageddon is open to the public inside one of the world’s most bone-chilling tourist attractions. ​

Former Colonel Mikael Kamenskov had his finger on the button for over a decade.   If the orders had come down, as they nearly did on several occasions, he was responsible for pressing the button, launching the missiles, and annihilating entire cities.   Moustached and balding, he is serious man, explaining the detailed security measures and base design using scale models and a stick pointer.  He describes how a two-man combat crew would take six-hour shifts, capable of surviving in their subterranean silo for up to 48 days without surfacing.   The Colonel does not present the face of a cold-stone killer, and yet his actions would directly have resulted in the slaughter of millions.  ​

I remove my Ray Ban sunglasses as we leave the bright sunshine behind and enter the guts of the facility. The air is cool as we walk along a narrow tunnel, once reserved for top-secret military personnel only. Heating, air, plumbing and radiation filters line the walls, while above us, a 120-ton cap protects the giant test-tube shaped silo.  The 12-level underground command post silos were built on hydraulic suspensions, to function in the event of earthquake, or more likely, missile attacks.  In the eyes of many Soviet soldiers, explains the Colonel, mutually assured nuclear annihilation was not so much an “if”, but a “when”. ​

We cram into a tiny elevator and descend slowly towards Level 12.    A loud ringing accompanies the elevator, along with an old rotary dial telephone in case we get stuck.   I open the flap doors to find a small circular room with low ceilings, the air musky and dank.   Two bunks are fastened to the walls, a simple airplane-like toilet behind a door.  Bleak as a tomb, this was the living quarters for the two officers on duty.   An iron ladder takes us up to the next claustrophobic level, the command room.   All signs of life are removed.  Trees, animals, seas, clouds and cities only exist here in the imagination. I take my seat, and imagine myself on duty, the hotline ringing. ​

Perhaps one day all nuclear missile bases will be dismantled, and similar museums will demonstrate just how close we came to cleverly engineering our own destruction. Considering Ukraine voluntarily chose to dismantle its substantial nuclear arsenal, turning this tool of “mutually assured destruction” into a vital and chilling museum, there is always reason to hope. ​

The Museum of Strategic Missile Troops is located 3.5 hours drive from Kiev.   It is open daily from 10am to 5pm.  Tour operators in Kiev can arrange transport and entrance. ​

​Torn between the forces of communist Vietnam and US-backed Thailand, Cambodia's modern history is literally a minefield.      At the heart of one the worst genocides in history lay Pol Pot, a ruthless dictator who built an army of brainwashed kids committed to returning the country to the Stone Age.   Genocide, famine, civil war – Cambodia in the 1970’s became synonymous with everything wrong with humanity.   Scarred by the past, it has come a long way.

Riding on the back of a “moto taxi”, I saw children playing on the dusty streets of Cambodia’s capital, Phnom Penh.  Smiling and waving, the motorbike zipped past shacks located next to brand new furniture stores, alongside street vendors selling fruit and vegetables late into the night.   My guesthouse was located along the Beong Kak Lake, its deck built onto the lake itself, complete with hammocks, pool table, DVD library, music, and fresh cooked, excellent food.   I paid just 8AED a night, but the sunsets over the lake were priceless. 

There are not many must-dos for the traveller in Phnom Penh.   Its main temple, with its famous Silver Pagoda, is beautiful, but most visitors come through Bangkok, and having seen the Thai capital’s magnificent Grand Palace, the Silver Pagoda feels like a lesser, if still stunning imitation. Guesthouses and tour operators sell packages consisting of one full day with a guide and a tuk-tuk that includes a popular if somewhat distasteful shooting range, the Silver Pagoda, the National Museum, and two of the most disturbing attractions for a traveller anywhere; the Killing Fields, and the Genocide Museum at Tuol Sleng.   ​

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Ruling for four, bloody years, the Khmer Rouge outlawed money and religion, closed schools, disrobed monks, destroyed temples, took over all farms and businesses, and created an army of brainwashed children.  Phnom Penh was forcibly evacuated and became a ghost town, while refugees flooded to the borders.  Intellectuals, politicians, teachers, students, doctors and professionals were rounded up and butchered.   Reliving the horrors of Pol Pot and the Killing Fields is not easy.  Most of my group was reduced to tears, staring at row after row of skulls, innocent victims who had been bludgeoned to death with bamboo sticks to save bullets.   Whereas the Nazis had managed to destroy much of their evidence before the allies liberated the camps, the Khmer Rouge were caught off-guard by a liberating Vietnamese army.   The thousands of mugshots of young, innocent victims are on display at Tuol Sleng, a high school that was converted into a hell for 20,000 people. Only seven people walked out alive. ​

Khridoli is all but unknown outside Georgia, although I expect it could be a big hit in the world of mixed martial arts.  As for the Georgian military, Soviet instructors have made way for American instructors, but Lasha is hopeful Khrilodi will once again become integral to Georgian defence.  In the meantime, old uniforms are being sourced from the mountains, and new weapons are being sharpened.   Georgian legend believes a famed local warrior defeated champion samurais in medieval Japan.  Curled up in a ball at the wrong end of punches and kicks, it’s easy for me to understand why. ​

Well equipped with a headache the following morning, I awake to find the Tango Inn empty, the Fez Bus departed, and another delightful Turkish sunny day.  Hopping aboard a wooden boat crammed with local tourists on their way to the beach, I am the only foreigner and relish the enthusiastic hospitality.  I am ploughed with homemade food and polite questions by new found friends.  Along the canals, we pass imposing 2000-year-old Lyceum rock tombs carved into the cliffs above us.  History is never far away in Turkey.   After stopping off for a refreshing dip in the lake, we arrive at a long sandy beach, and the crystal blue Mediterranean.   I end up playing Frisbee with a some brothers from the boat, eating local delicacies, enjoying my spontaneous off the beaten path adventure.   The boats slowly makes its way back to Köycegiz at sunset, humid wind in my fingertips, the notes of a tanbur floating out the speakers up front.   These are the moments in life when you stop, look around, and believe that somehow, everything, for everybody, is going to work out just fine.    ​

On April 27th 2014, South Africa celebrated its 20th Anniversary of democracy.   It's difficult to explain just how momentous April 27, 1994 actually was.  What an achievement of justice, peace and reconciliation.    I searched through some very old journals and found the below. It's the voice of a young student recalling, somewhat whimsically, what was going on at the time.   Seemed like a good time to share.  ​

South Africa was always behind The United States in terms of fashion and culture by about 25 years.  I know this because 25 years after Whites Only signs disappeared from the southern US landscape, so they slowly and finally removed themselves from our cities -  like an embarrassed party guest caught stealing the prize liquor in the cabinet.   Elevators, shops, busses, cinemas and even schools slowly dabbled with multiculturalism, tentatively dipping their toes in to see if they would freeze.   And then the demonized ANC was legalized.  And then the man the government told us to fear most, Nelson Mandela, was released like a hero returning from purgatory.   The wall was coming down, but many worked hard to ensure it would come down piece-by-peace, and not in one massive explosion that would take the country with it.    Like East Germans, black South Africans ventured into areas previously forbidden, knowing that they no longer needed a pass or permission to share the air and space of their country with the rest of us.  We were all scared, and all excited, because this was right, and moral, and just. ​

Yet these things usually go down with civil war, bloodshed and violence, especially in Africa.      And then came Election Day. The first universally democratic vote ever in the history of South Africa.   The last white bastion stronghold, the colonial heart of history, was about to get a bypass.    Of the three main political parties, you kinda knew Black South Africans wouldn’t go for the National Party (under the slogan that should have read “48 years of Apartheid.  Whoops, sorry.  Vote NP!”).   The Conservative Party was made up of neo-nazi crackpot Afrikaners, lacking an enduring mascot, so, em, no go there.   Finally, we have the African National Congress, led by Nelson Mandela, who has fought against injustice with dignity and humanity, who has never backed down, who has inspired the world.   As you can tell, it was going to be a close race.  ​

At the time of Election Day, I was in my second year at Rhodes University in Grahamstown.   At the time, the small college town on the Eastern Cape had a population of 80 000, 75% of which were unemployed.   5000 of which were mostly privileged white kids getting wasted on cheap beer, cheaper pot, and total independence from anything representing authority.   They called this "an education."  On April 27, a Saturday, I was driving with my friend Grant to his parent’s retirement house, 45 minutes away in the beautiful coastal village of Kenton-on-Sea.    We both shared the feeling that were our vote to actually count, we would probably register and do it.   But since a glowing unicorn mounted by a giant furry Cyclops wouldn’t stop Mandela from assuming rightful control of the country, there was little point to join the line and share the experience of voting.   Besides, we had voted before.   Just recently, Grant had voted for me as our [frat-house] Entertainment Coordinator, and I had rewarded him with a few beers.  Line-ups have never been my thing.  Years later I'd bribe a guard in Moscow's Red Square to skip a six hour line to see the glowing corpse of Lenin.  ​

We drove past several towns and settlements, stopping along the way to observe the quality of human shape, the amazing patience of the masses.   Blue UN Voting Station signs were placed outside halls and schools, and slowly the lines fed into the machine like sausages.   The scene was similar across the country, and the world media loved it.  Several friends had volunteered to be coordinators, which was quite brave at the time, because there was still rumours that Election Day would see a white right-wing backlash, resulting in violence around the country.  There was some violence.  Xhosa/Zulu blood feuds are difficult to stamp out.    
As we made our way to the east, we did come across one town that seemed free of people.   The nearest township had its own voting station, and this one was almost exclusively for the white inhabitants, numbering about 23.   Now that it was convenient -  because politics is best when convenient - we decided to vote after all.  I voted for Nelson Mandela, and I’m proud that I did. It was a remarkable day, when Africa rediscovered its pride, and its chosen people. ​