I’m flying back to Iceland en route to London. I finished up a contract at SapientNitro – performing a delta analysis on the content management group of a Canadian giant – and having failed to find an equally stimulating immediate next foray, I instead did the only thing I know how when my brain lacks challenge – I got on a plane.

Icelandair is quickly becoming my favourite airline. The staff exude a kind of calm pleasantness and sincerity that I realize now is characteristic of their countrymen. The food is good. Their earbuds are cool. They offer Wifi on flights.

A Polish girl (I say girl, though upon initial conversation she reveals many life milestones that make her arguably more adult than I) is sitting next to me, and she’s terrified of flying. It takes a mere moment to figure out that she’s not a nutty drama queen but genuinely handicapped in this phobia. She whimpers quietly beside me with her sympathetic nervous system in overdrive, eyes darting around madly and sweat collecting between her brows. She asks if I mind that we talk a bit, because it calms her. I don’t mind, I tell her. My mom has always had bad anxiety and there were nights that I stayed awake massaging her legs to try to get her warm and blood circulating around her body. I offer up my hand to hold, should it soothe her, and she grips it instantly, clutching at me with cold, soggy fingers. She apologizes for the grossness of it all, almost releases me from my duty, but I smile that it’s no bother. It’s an intimacy that I tend to avoid like the plague. It embarrasses me to witness other people’s personal pain. In this teeny space, however, it’s unavoidable, and completely in my best interest to keep her from melting down.

We sat like that for four hours. The plane landed, and she gave me a quick hug before frantically dashing out the barely opened hatch and disappearing into the terminal.

Do you ever have those moments when you sit back and remember certain stuff and you're so overwhelmed by the adventure and richness of your experience that you wonder for a moment if you're nutty and maybe made it all up?

I used to read a lot, and I mean a lot, so I actually have to stop sometimes and think — is this me pulling a Big Fish or was I actually there?

That storm. The storm. In Belize, just after landing in Caye Caulker, when we grabbed a bite and were strolling back to our room when the world above us just unzipped and poured the contents of its cup right onto our heads. We thought we were going to die. What made it worse, too, was that all the fiddler crabs were scared to pieces and climbed on top of each other on the sand, so we had to avoid crab-domes while still trying to stay alive. Nature certainly has a way of putting you in your place.

That whole trip was man-against-beast. Manta rays, seahorses, algal blooms, baby sharks, you name it. And then there was Placencia — taking the kayak out for a spin in the middle of the water, swimming until we got hungry, and paddling up to a little nook where a lovely proprietor apologized for being closed but offered to go to her house across the street and make us two fish sandwiches. I will never forget those sandwiches as long as I live — beautiful fresh bread, giant fillets of fish with egg and breading, cucumber, mustard, fresh tomato, lettuce.

Yes. I was actually there.

To celebrate Halloween in the best ol' spooky way one knows how, you should do what I did and rent a cabin in the woods. By a lake! Preferably a deserted spot, where it is super grey, windy, and cold, and ideally raining non-stop.

Make sure there are lots and lots of windows devoid of any covering so that murderers can watch every move you make. Throw in a lighthouse in the distance, just close enough so that you always know there's something out there on the water, but far enough that you can't quite make out if it's an asylum or what.

A basement with broken lights and dripping water is a must. So is losing your rideshare in the dark on a dirt road with no cell reception.

On the plus side — when your rideshare does arrive, it could be a Tesla, as was the case with us. We got to zip around town like millionaires and the driver showed off just how much those cars can do.

10/10. Would haunt again.

There's not that much to write about during a Canadian winter lockdown. I watch TV. I eat. I stare at my computer screen.

Instead of celebrating my 40th in the Maldives with a margarita, I celebrated it on Zoom. All day. I played Among Us with my kid brother and my sister-in-law on Zoom. I virtually ate German Chocolate Cake — which is American, FYI — with my folks on Zoom. I had a whole meal complete with sparklers and champagne on Zoom. I had a call with my Amsterdam buddies, who made me cry because clearly I am an emotional basketcase and miss them dearly, on Zoom.

And you know what? Screw the Maldives. It was adorable.

I've always been a big fan of escape games. When the first live-action escape rooms started popping up in Amsterdam, I was beside myself. The opportunity to immerse myself in the creepy and crafty world of these puzzle games was impossible to turn down.

I'm delighted, then, that Toronto seems to have a whole bucketload of these downtown. Some more legit than others, and several that appear to be full-fledged theatrical productions. The one at Casa Loma, for example, looks amazing.

Now I must dash off, for I have been informed by those who love me well that there is a miniseries remake of Agatha Christie's "And Then There Were None" with Charles Dance and Noah Taylor, and knowing this does not allow me to sit here any longer.

Love to you all in this new year — may it bring you as much intrigue and mystery as it already has brought me.

Icelandair is quickly becoming my favourite airline. The staff exude a kind of calm pleasantness and sincerity that I realize now is characteristic of their countrymen. The food is good. Their earbuds are cool. They offer wifi on flights.

A Polish girl — I say girl, though upon initial conversation she reveals many life milestones that make her arguably more adult than I — is sitting next to me, and she's terrified of flying. It takes a mere moment to figure out that she's not a nutty drama queen but genuinely handicapped in this phobia. She whimpers quietly beside me with her sympathetic nervous system in overdrive, eyes darting around madly and sweat collecting between her brows.

She asks if I mind that we talk a bit, because it calms her. I don't mind, I tell her. My mom has always had bad anxiety and there were nights that I stayed awake massaging her legs to try to get her warm and blood circulating around her body.

We talked for four hours. About everything. Strangers at 30,000 feet, briefly the closest people in each other's worlds.