A great day to view large ships at Canada Place

Yesterday at Canada Place felt like one of those classic Vancouver cruise days—busy, bright, and full of anticipation. Three ships were in port, and two of them were true giants of the sea: Celebrity Edge, Royal Caribbean’s Ovation of the Seas, and the elegant Seabourn Encore.

The terminal buzzed from early morning onward. You could see excited passengers rolling their suitcases along the promenade, pausing to take photos of the ships towering over the harbour. The Edge and the Ovation, both large and modern, dominated the skyline with their sleek lines and colourful hull art. In contrast, the Seabourn Encore brought a quieter kind of luxury—smaller, refined, and unmistakably upscale.

For ship watchers, it was a perfect day. For travellers, it was the beginning of something special: new adventures, new ports, and that familiar thrill of stepping aboard. Canada Place has seen countless cruise days over the decades, but when three ships arrive together—especially ships of this calibre—it becomes a little celebration of travel right in the heart of the city.

The orange lift is a bar.  When you tender, it rolls down to the waterline so people in wheelchairs have great access!

This ship has the nicest tenders!  You can see they are proper chairs with a high back.  So comfortable.

The North Star is a mechanical arm with a glass observation capsule

I couldn't get a good picture of the Seaborn Encore as the pier was crowded.  I got this picture online.  It's an ultra luxury ship with an all suite, all verandah design.

A lovely Thank You letter

I read this and liked it so much, I thought I would share.

A Thank You Letter to President Trump, From a Grateful Canadian.

Somebody had to say it. Might as well be a real estate agent in Charlottetown.

Mr. President, on behalf of a country that has spent 158 years being pleasant, apologetic, and largely unnoticed , thank you. You have done more for Canadian self-awareness in a few years than a century of Heritage Minutes ever managed.

Thank you for reminding us there is an entire world out there that wants and needs what we produce, and for the shove, not always gentle, toward broadening our trade beyond one large, conveniently close customer.

Thank you for elevating the stature, the awareness, and the significance of Canada in the minds of Americans who, respectfully, were overdue for some education about their neighbour to the north.

Thank you for taking Canada from an occasional footnote or moose in a pool closing story in your news broadcasts to the lead story in many of them. Nothing sharpens a national identity quite like being talked about.

Thank you for reminding Canadians, and, to an even greater extent, Americans , that a democracy works best when its people are informed and educated enough to tell the difference between competence and an undeliverable promise.

Thank you for helping the world see that we matter, and for positioning us, almost by contrast, as a case study in good governance, fair trade, and ethical political practice.

Thank you for uniting Canadians from Victoria to St. John's around something we can all agree on, which, frankly, only ever happens on rare occasion during the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

Thank you for the great national rediscovery of the grocery store aisle, turns out reading the label on a jar of pickles is a patriotic act now.

Thank you for accelerating our exit from the habit of keeping all our eggs in one very large, unpredictable basket.

Thank you for the sudden, unusual spectacle of provincial premiers agreeing with each other, and occasionally with Ottawa.

Thank you for reminding snowbirds that a Canadian dollar buys rather more in our own stores in February than it does in Florida.

Thank you for helping us to remind ourselves that Canada is an exceptional place to travel and explore. You’ve also enlightened growing numbers of your own people to this fact.

We remain, as ever, your polite, and thanks to you, considerably harder to overlook neighbour to the north.

Surrey Deserves Better: Two High‑Risk Offenders Released Here in Just 48 Hours

Surrey residents woke up this week to two separate public safety warnings — each announcing the release of a high‑risk violent offender into our city. According to the Surrey Police Service, Jonathon Anders Muzychka and Skylar Wayne Pelletier, both designated high‑risk offenders with histories of serious violent offences, will now be living in our community.

Two releases. Two days. One city expected to absorb the risk.

This is not acceptable.

Surrey is home to more than 700,000 people — families, children, seniors, and workers who deserve to feel safe in their neighbourhoods. Yet once again, Surrey is being asked to accommodate individuals who pose a significant risk to public safety.

Both Muzychka and Pelletier are subject to:

• Extensive court‑ordered conditions

• Electronic monitoring

• Curfews

• Ongoing police oversight

These conditions exist because authorities believe these individuals present a real and ongoing risk. And still, Surrey is chosen as the placement location — twice in two days.

Residents have every right to ask: Why Surrey? Why again?

Rehabilitation Matters — But So Does Fairness

I fully support rehabilitation. Successful reintegration must be part of any responsible justice system. But rehabilitation cannot come at the expense of community safety, nor should one city be repeatedly selected to house offenders who pose elevated risks.

Surrey is not a dumping ground for high‑risk placements.

Reintegration must be shared fairly across jurisdictions, not concentrated in a single community that is already managing rapid growth, complex policing challenges, and significant demands on social services.

Muzychka and Pelletier are not welcome in Surrey, and residents are justified in saying so.

Skylar Wayne Pelletier

Jonathon Anders Muzychka

Wearing White After Labour Day? Absolutely.

That isn't me.  I'm learning to use AI and it's a lot of fun!

I’ve lost enough weight that my white pants are finally comfortable again — and I’m wearing them.

Yes, it’s after Labour Day. And yes, I can already hear that old voice in the back of my mind saying, “You can’t wear white after Labour Day.”

Well… who said so? And more importantly, why did we ever listen?

Labour Day weekend always arrives with that bittersweet feeling: summer’s unofficial farewell. The last barbecues, the final dips in the pool, and then suddenly everyone is talking about cozy sweaters, pumpkin spice, and baking season. It’s lovely, of course — but it also comes with a handful of “rules” that never made much sense.

The biggest one? The idea that white clothing must be packed away the moment September rolls in.

I’ve heard it my whole life. You probably have too. White jeans, white pants, white linen — all supposedly destined for storage until next June. But honestly, that rule is so outdated it should come with a museum plaque. Even Ree Drummond jokes about it, saying the whole “no white after Labor Day” thing is right up there with “no casseroles before Labor Day.” In other words: nonsense.

And here’s the real truth. I’m going on a cruise in less than two weeks — to warmer weather, sunshine, and sea breezes — and my white pants are coming with me. I don’t care what the calendar says. They fit, they feel good, and they make me happy. That’s reason enough.

Fashion should never be about following dusty old rules. It should be about confidence, comfort, and joy. If white makes you feel bright and fresh in September, October, or even January, wear it. Pair it with a cozy sweater, a denim jacket, or a fall scarf. White isn’t a season — it’s a mood.

So here’s my little declaration as we head into autumn: I’m keeping my white pants out, and I’m packing them for my cruise. The rule is gone, the myth is retired, and the suitcase is staying open for anything that makes me feel good.

After all, life is too short — and too colourful — to let an old fashion rule tell us what to wear.

Celine Dion in Paris 2026

 

On the evening of September 12, 2026, a black car pulled up outside the Plenitude Arena in Nanterre, on the western edge of Paris. Michelle Obama stepped out. She had crossed the Atlantic to attend the opening night of Céline Dion's residency, her first full concert in six years. The former first lady entered the arena discreetly, according to Le Parisien, which first reported her presence. She was not alone. Oprah Winfrey was seated beside her. The two American figures took their places in the pit, on folding chairs close to the stage, not in a VIP box. Shania Twain was also in the audience. Around them, some 30,000 fans filled the arena. The crowd wore sequined dresses and glittered cheeks. Many had traveled from across Europe and beyond. Some had flown in from Tahiti. The doors had opened hours earlier. The air was warm with anticipation. Inside, a stage shaped like a rocky landscape waited. The lights dimmed. A figure in a long pink coat stepped onto the stage. The room erupted. The show had begun.

Céline Dion opened with On ne change pas, a French ballad from the 1990s. She was visibly moved. Tears streamed down her face. "I promised myself I wouldn't cry," she told the crowd, according to the German Press Agency. She did not keep that promise. "Tonight, I want to sing for you, sing for myself, sing for life," she said. The performance lasted two and a half hours. She moved through her biggest hits: My Heart Will Go On, J'irai où tu iras, Pour que tu m'aimes encore. She sang a cover of Eurythmics' Sweet Dreams. She performed the operatic aria La Wally while snowflakes fell from the ceiling. Between songs, she spoke about the condition she lives with, a rare autoimmune disorder that causes stiffness and cramps. "I learned to live with this fragility," she said. "By living alongside it, I learned to tame it. I turned it into my strength to live." The crowd listened. The former first lady listened. The arena held the sound. The night continued.

The concert was the first of 26 shows at the Plenitude Arena, a residency scheduled to run into the following spring. The demand for tickets had been extraordinary. More than nine million fans entered a lottery for early access, according to Le Parisien. That figure surpassed the previous record in Paris, held by Taylor Swift. The arena holds roughly 30,000 people per night. Only about one in 164 lottery entrants could secure a seat. Michelle Obama was among the fortunate few. She had entered the pool, like millions of others, and she had won a place in the room. On this night, she sat in the pit, close enough to see the tears on the singer's face. When the show ended, the lights came up. The crowd filed out. The former first lady left the arena. The residency had begun. The record shows what happened next: 25 more shows, a city that had waited six years, and a singer who had kept her promise to return.

Missing My Vote This Year — And Watching From Afar

This year brings a first I never expected: I won’t be able to vote in our city election.

We leave on holidays one day before absentee ballots become available, and for the first time in my life, I’ll be sitting on the sidelines. I’ve already done my homework, I know exactly who I would vote for, and I’m still adjusting to the idea that my ballot won’t be part of the count.

Last Sunday, one of the candidates for Mayor actually came to our strata. In all my years of voting, I’ve never had a candidate show up at my door. It was a reminder of how personal and local municipal politics can be — and how much these decisions shape the neighbourhoods we live in.

A Crowded Race

We have seven people running for Mayor this time. With a field that full, it’s impossible to guess who might win — and I won’t try. I know who I would like to see in the role, but elections have a way of surprising us.

And then there’s council.

Sixty-six candidates. I think that must be a record. It certainly feels like one. It’s almost dizzying to imagine voters trying to sort through that many names, backgrounds, and priorities.

Age and Leadership

One candidate for mayor is 82 years old. He’s served twice before, though he’s not the incumbent. If elected, his term would take him to age 86. I can’t help wishing we had an age limit for roles with this level of responsibility. Leadership demands stamina, clarity, and the ability to manage a city that’s growing and changing quickly. At some point, age becomes a factor — not out of disrespect, but out of realism.

Watching From Afar

Even though I won’t be casting a ballot, I’ll be following the results closely on my computer. Elections matter, especially municipal ones. They determine how our neighbourhoods grow, how our streets feel, and whether decisions are made for the people who live here — or for developers and special interest groups.

My hope is simple: Whoever wins, let them serve with integrity, transparency, and a genuine commitment to the community.

That’s all any of us can ask for.

If anyone is looking to check out our home for cash or furniture, our cash comes with us and our furniture is old.  My 24 year old grandson will be staying in our house.  I hope his rottweiler doesn't bother our neighbours.  

The Martha Mitchell effect

In a California hotel room in June 1972, the wife of the Attorney General of the United States was forcibly sedated to stop her from exposing the Watergate conspiracy. It would take years, and the ruin of powerful men, before history admitted she was telling the truth.

Martha Mitchell was born in 1918 in Pine Bluff, Arkansas. She was outspoken by nature, charming by reputation, and by 1972 she was one of the most recognizable political wives in Washington. Reporters loved her. She called them directly, sometimes late at night, with things she was not supposed to say.

That habit would almost get her killed.

On June 17, 1972, the night of the Watergate break-in, Martha was at the Waterfront Hotel in Newport Beach with her husband John Mitchell, who was then running Nixon's reelection campaign.  When she heard about the arrests, she called Helen Thomas, the veteran wire reporter, and told her that Nixon's people were behind it. She was going to go public.

She never got the chance to finish the call.

Her security detail, acting on orders, physically restrained her.  She was held against her will, injected with tranquilizers, and prevented from speaking to anyone for days.  She suffered a laceration on her hand during the struggle.  When she finally resurfaced, her husband and the White House did what they had already been doing: they called her unstable.  They said she was drinking.  They implied, and sometimes stated outright, that she was not to be believed.

It worked, for a while.

John Mitchell denied her account.  The press, much of it, went along with the framing. Martha was cast as the volatile wife of a serious man, someone whose calls to reporters were a source of embarrassment rather than intelligence. The coverup held, and Martha's credibility was the price it extracted.

But the Watergate investigation continued.  Reporters kept digging.  Tapes surfaced. Testimony accumulated.  And piece by piece, what Martha had said in that interrupted phone call turned out to be exactly correct.

John Mitchell was convicted of conspiracy, obstruction of justice, and perjury.  He served around 19 months in federal prison, released in 1979.  Martha and John had divorced in 1973.  She died in 1976, before the full weight of her vindication had settled.

She never saw herself properly acknowledged.

In the decades since, something quieter happened.  Psychiatrists and researchers began to document a pattern they were seeing in clinical settings: patients who reported real events, correctly, but were disbelieved and pathologized for it.  The tendency of institutions, families, and authorities to gaslight accurate witnesses into doubting themselves.

They named it the Martha Mitchell Effect.