Kenya Reunions in Northern Ireland

People often ask me why I travel alone. There are some obvious reasons, and some not so obvious.

OBVIOUS: It's surprisingly hard to find someone willing to fly with me when I pay 1/10th what normal people pay for a flight. Equally rare are those interested in throwing themselves into a Kenyan village on an island they've never heard of. Shocking. I know.

NOT SO OBVIOUS: There's nothing like launching myself into the deep-end - the exhilaration of turning up in a new city/country/continent, starting from scratch and creating friendships unparalleled to those made within the comforts of home. The experiences I've had this past year would not have been so memorable without the friends I've made along the way - many of these experiences I wouldn't have even had! I wouldn't have lasted one week on Rusinga Island without Denae, and the hours I spent in Dorman's Coffee in Mombasa pretending I wasn't in Kenya would have seemed a lot less tragically hilarious if I didn't have Beau. Oh the disasters I would have created for myself had I not made such good friends!

And then there are those who I only get to spend a few hours with, but for some reason can tell right away that we will be great friends. These are the ones who never allow for an awkward silence; who make me laugh from the very pit of my stomach, and never seem to think less of me no matter what inappropriate things accidentally come out of my mouth. When I met Stuart in Kisumu, Kenya only a few weeks into my travels in East Africa, I could tell right away that he was one of those people. We only spent a few hours together in total, but as I was planning the last leg of my trip through the UK I thought to myself: what better way to test my theory than to invade his family's country home! The next thing I knew I was in Northern Ireland and Stuart was forced to play tour guide. Fact: Stuart is something of local celebrity. He is invited to absolutely every wedding that takes place in Northern Ireland, yet somehow managed to take time out of his busy schedule to show me a good old (British) time. Stuart made Northern Ireland an exciting place where polar opposite ends of the entertainment spectrum can be experienced a mere 20 minutes from each other - breath-taking ocean front beaches on one end, infamous Nevin Family Karaoke on the other. It is one of those magical destinations where tea time is all the time and everybody knows everybody, and if they don't know you, they'll do their best in the few minutes they have to get to know you. I had such an amazing time that you are almost forgiven for waking me up at 6 am to tell me you were hungry. Almost.

As much as I wanted to stay longer, I had a date with my dad in Dublin on Sunday to mark the last of our layovers together for another year (unless of course I haven't been fully cured of this traveling disease...) After 11 countries, 40 cities, 3 cameras, 4 journals and a wheel of cheese attached to my midriff which I am now ready to be rid of, how nice it was to just sit back, relax and let my dad take me home.

Edinburgh Is Where It's At

What is it that I loved so much about Edinburgh? Is it the way people line up single file to board the city bus? The way that, no matter where I went, the city smelled like freshly buttered toast? Or maybe it’s the fact that there is a MEDIEVAL CASTLE RIGHT DOWNTOWN! There is so much going on in Edinburgh that it’s hard to say what exactly makes everyone fall in love with this city, but it stole my heart the moment I arrived at Haymarket Station.

I'm sure Edinburgh isn’t always like this, but I was lucky enough to arrive in town during the peak of festival season, when three world-renowned festivals overlapped - The Edinburgh Fringe Festival, the Military Tattoo and the Comedy Festival. Walking down the Royal Mile, performers lined the street doing stand up comedy, performing unconventional music acts (the roller-blading mandolin player immediately comes to mind) and executing Matrix-like choreography while handing out flyers for their shows. Some nights I spent the entire evening in underground comedy clubs, wandering between floors and seeing new acts every half hour. Others nights I watched the action from the inside, staring out the window of the Southern Cross Café, bagpipes playing outside and Edith Piaf on the inside.


I’d be lying if I said my visit to Edinburgh during festival season was entirely coincidental. I, Claudia - a story of “the raw but beautiful interior life of misfit adolescent Claudia” - is what brought me here. I, Claudia touched my heart years ago when I saw the film version of the Toronto-based play, and continues to make me smile every time I watch the film or when I’m lucky enough to see it live. When I found out it would be playing at the Edinburgh Fringe during my visit to Glasgow, I couldn’t miss the opportunity to see it live once again. Being the die-hard fan that I am, I lined up half an hour earlier than necessary in order to get a good seat, and it was worth thirty minutes of looking like a nerd once the lights were off and the curtain was drawn. For an hour and a half, Claudia, Drachman, Leslie and Douglas transported me into Claudia's world once again - I laughed, I cried, and I went back the next day to do it all over again. Maybe that's why I loved Edinburgh so much. But then again, maybe it was just the buttered toast.

My Glaswegian Roots

Sunshine, galleries and finally some visuals to add to the stories I've been told of my family history - what an amazing trip to Glasgow! My trip would not have been the same without my great-uncle Harry and great-aunt Margaret. These two have a reputation that precedes them. My grandparents often warn the younger traveling Rews that Harry and Margaret are aging and can't take visitors (what with their hearing aids and recently replaced knees.) But for some reason we never listen, and every time one of us makes our way to Scotland, we're sure to pay Harry and Margaret a visit. Over the years I've heard so many stories of Harry's habit of kicking back in his chair as he laughs at his own jokes, and of Margaret's grandmotherly love. It was time for me to experience them for myself!

Harry and Margaret may be aging, but that hasn't dampened their spirits, or reduced their mobility! When Harry met me at the Gallery of Modern Art, fashioning the blue Angus tartan cap he promised he'd wear so that I would recognize him, I was the one who had to keep up with him as he raced back to his car without the slightest indication of his 86 years. When we made it home, after several rounds of his favourite game "Hit That Pedestrian," Margaret welcomed me with a warm hug and kiss on the cheek - she filled the void in my life in a way that only a Scottish granny can!

Over my 4 days in Glasgow they had me over for tea and shortbread, roast beef dinners and took me to explore outside of Glasgow where my family lived before the war. We went to Clyde Bank to my great grandpa and granny's grave (eerily on the exact day David Rew Sr passed away 61 years ago), the houses where my Granny and Grandpa lived before World War II, when the Clyde Bank Blitz forced them to relocate, then to Doune to the family mill where my great great grandpa was a barley miller (you may remember this mill from a few scenes of Monty Python and the Holy Grail!)

Seeing where my grandparents lived before the war brought me in touch with a different side of them. I've been a part of their lives as grandparents in Winnipeg - stopping by for chocolate digestives during their early retired years in Osborne Village, and meeting for coffee at the Bistro at the Shaftesbury Retirement Residence. In 2008, I got in touch with their lives as parents and professionals when I made my way to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia to see where they raised my dad and the projects my grandpa worked on as an architect during the colonial years. Now I can visualize them as young people. I saw their homes, stood on the bridge where my grandpa would sketch during his early artistic days, and I learned that my grandparents were, in fact, once my age.

The Journey Home Begins

At 11 o'clock on Thursday morning, stepped onto the Hendaye-bound Euskotren and waved agur to beautiful Donostia. That was the first step of my 10 day journey home. It was time for me to leave San Sebastian. It had been a hectic month, and I wanted to end my year abroad with one last journey of self discovery, to Scotland, where half of my roots lie.

This isn't to say that my last month in San Sebastian was pure stress - not at all! I have plenty of wonderful memories - daily escapes to Cafe Bat to avoid the responsibilities of work; dance parties on the beach; abandoning the beach for the stage; day trips to Bordeaux, failed day-trips elsewhere. My mom visited for one week of gastronomic discovery, then Jessie and I met our dad in Barcelona for a day of father-daughter strolls along the beach. I was surprised with tickets to Mama Mia, and I watched Jessie power through a surf lesson, my heart bursting with maternal pride as I lived vicariously through her. Good times were had... but I'm never one to stay in one place for too long.

So here I am in Glasgow. After a train to Hendaye, a bus to Biarritz, a delayed flight to London, and wander through London town with my friend Ben and a night bus to Glasgow, I've made it. I couldn't be happier to be here. Glasgow is more or less what I expected it to be. Sophisticated yet grungy. It's appearance is at first unimpressive, but the closer you look, the more intriguing it becomes. Glasgow is a city of contrast. The city's architecture provides a refined background to the bad-ass Scots that exist in the foreground. The perfect example of this was my walk through Kelvingrove Park, with the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum shooting through the trees while the local neds (non-educated delinquents) went about their days, fashioning off their tartan, tattoos and mullets that would make Basque separatists proud. If I've learned anything after living in the Basque Region, it's that where there are mullets, there are good times. Glasgow will not disappoint.