I just completed an imaginary Hartford Metro map and am currently exploring printing options. At this point, it looks like a run of about 100 prints, 27″ x 16.5″ on heavy paper with a matte finish.

The price point hasn’t yet been set, but all proceeds will go to ConnectiKids, a Hartford-based “independent, non-profit youth development agency whose mission is to connect kids in Hartford to their potential by providing year-round enrichment opportunities linked directly to school curricula, taking a holistic approach to youth development, and exposing kids to role models who inspire positive choices and big dreams.”

In the coming days, I’ll be preparing a process post, where I detail the evolution of the project including station selection, line layout and timetable development while discussing the various design choices made along the way.

UPDATE: You can order your copy here: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/886104268/hartford-metro-map

We went strolling around Eastern Market, idling past jewelry vendors and fruit merchants. Next to a tent hawking odd fur caps, we found a mess of unsorted books; some were on shelves, some on a table and some in boxes. The Book of the Hand caught my eye and I began leafing through it, wondering how its antiquated nomenclature would divine and define me based on the geometry of my hand.

As I turned to page 48, I saw it there, my hand with its stubby fingers and knotted knuckles. Eagerly, I read the caption. This is what I saw:

A poster based on my recent trip to California for Thanksgiving. Notably, every picture except the ‘O’ was taken from a moving car. Feel free to check out the other pictures from California and posters I’ve done.

Fortune recently sent me on two fantastic outings, tied together by the common themes of natural beauty, good meals and great friends.

Last Thursday saw me driving west for a couple of hours into the Berkshires where I met up with Priya, who I’ve known since my Singapore American School days, and her friend Christian. The two are on the Appalachian Trail, having started south from Maine in July and scheduled to complete the entire thing some time in December. You can follow their progress at their Appalachian Trail blog and support a cause that Priya is championing at her website.

Determined to give them a memorable meal, I picked up a few orders of gourmet pasta from Glastonbury’s Max Amore and a bottle of wine, having carefully packed three wine glasses for an added treat (Priya and Christian drink water out of their bottles and heated beverages straight out of the pot; they carry no cups). Parking by Guilder Pond in the Mt. Everett State Reservation, I was faced with trail in two directions and promptly chose the wrong one, resulting in a beautiful but hardly necessary hike to the top of Mt. Everett with backpack, sleeping bag and food in hand. Retracing my steps, I finally reached The Hemlocks lean-to and reunited with the two hikers. In hindsight, I really should have brought twice as much pasta (hiking the AT burns a lot calories), but Priya and Christian appreciated the gesture.

They also suffered my ignorant questions and told me many interesting tidbits about logistics, etiquette and trail lore. I got to learn their trail names (Lefty and Homefries) and get a sense of their routine. Christian’s impressive fire-building skills were also on display, though he was quick to give credit to the extremely flammable birch bark. After dinner, a pot of hot chocolate was set upon the fire and quickly boiled. The wine glasses became vessels for perhaps the best hot chocolate I have ever had. Priya gently mocked this observation of mine, but with the nighttime chill setting in, the clean forest air in my nose and the unusually high chocolate-powder-to-water ratio, it was an honest assessment.

The stars were magnificent, thicker and sharper than any I’ve seen since I went sailing in the Caribbean. We settled into our sleeping bags around 9:30 PM (considerably later than the hikers usually stay up) and slept until morning. I accompanied Priya and Christian along the trail as far as my car, wished them well and drove straight to work smelling like a campfire while they continued their journey. The curious can check out some pictures of the evening.

After a short day in the office, I was on the road again, this time heading up to Loon Mountain, New Hampshire with Dan and Marta for the annual Scottish Highland Games. From what I knew about the Scots, I was expecting heavy athletics, plenty of bagpipes and no small amount of beer. I was not disappointed.

Traffic was bad going up but a stop at The Common Man, featuring a rum-infused apple cider and complimentary white chocolate, revitalized our spirits. We rolled up at the Days Inn around 9 on Friday night and decided to check out a neighborhood watering hole. After failing to find it on foot, we hopped in the car and located the establishment. Marta in particular was fascinated by the local color (firefighters, townies, Jägermeister girls), but after a some cards and a few beers we called it a night.

Breakfast was complimentary, as was an ebullient matron who had a word for everyone, whether they liked it or not. The Belgian waffles, blueberry muffins and cups of coffee went down easily, and we spiked a few of the latter with Kahlua to supplement the warmth offered by our many layers of clothing. A crowded bus ride later, we emerged at Loon Mountain and joined the throngs milling around and taking in the scene to a constant soundtrack of bagpipes. Marta’s cousins were also attending, and we met up with them briefly before heading to the heavy athletics field to watch a bit of the inventively named Weight Over Bar. We grabbed a few Scottish-style beers and cheered as burly men struggled to toss a 50lb ball over a bar that started at 13 feet and was eventually raised up to 18 feet.

Soon it was time for the opening ceremonies, where about 10 different pipe and drum bands played about 10 “different” traditional Scottish marches as they entered a large plaza. It would take someone more Scottish than me to tell the songs apart, but it was fun to see and hear. We peeked in the music tent after the ceremonies to witness an intense performance by… you guessed it: a pipe and drum band. They seemed to have brought their own cadre of screaming girls in the front row, which whipped up both the band and the crowd. The air was hot and the music was loud. It was very Scottish.

Breakfast had long since worn off, so we made our way to the food tent. Dan and I plumped for haggis and thumps (potatoes), which was far more palatable than I was led to believe. It was probably even better than the chips and gravy I had when I went to England earlier this year. Situated on the hillside with our food and beer, we sat back and enjoyed the caber toss, the heavy stone throw and the heavy stone carry. Eventually, we took the ski lift halfway up the mountain for a stroll, then the gondola to the peak in order to check out the view and the bar up there. Both were very agreeable, and we spent a good while looking around and admiring the late summer vistas of New Hampshire’s White Mountains.

At the base of Loon Mountain, the festivities were winding down and the crowd had largely gone. Those left were to be found wetting their whistles at the lodge, and so we joined in. While sampling various ales, we were treated to the entrance of and impromptu concert by winners of the festival’s pipe and drum competition. In the close quarters of the bar and the the brogue-laced air swirling in and out of the open windows, we happily sipped our libations and basked in the glow of the finest bagpipe playing in New England.

Eventually it was time to leave. We soon learned that the buses were no longer running back to the hotel, so we set off on foot, taking a path that ran along the road. It was a long walk, and our thoughts were turning toward cabs or hitchhiking when the well-lit hulk of The Common Man loomed up beside us. Our second visit was as good as the first, and we enjoyed beer, a meal and a whiskey flight from a comfortable couch and arm chairs. The rest of the walk wasn’t difficult after that, and our arrival at the hotel marked the end of a fantastic day. There were plenty of good times to remember on the drive home and I could only wish that every weekend could be as fun as this one.

Want more? Check out my other pictures from the Scottish Highland Games.

I left my car at work around 3:30 PM and Brian Canzanella (who I’ll call “Canz” henceforth), drove us to pick up his girlfriend, Kristina (who I’ll refer to as “K”). We headed north through some pretty heavy traffic around Springfield, but after that made good time. Notable stops included one of the nicest rest areas I’ve ever been to, complete with WiFi, the first memorial in the US to Vietnam War veterans and toilets that flushed with reclaimed waste water that had been filtered by plants. We grabbed subs at a small outpost in Vermont, and only waited in line for about 15 minutes before crossing the border into Canada near 9 PM.

Canz and K generously agreed to drop me at my youth hostel in Montreal’s Latin Quarter before continuing on their way just outside of town to stay at a hotel near K’s family. After several confusing roads (Sherbrooke Est vs Sherbrooke Owest), we finally found the place, Le Gite du Plateau Mont-Royal, shortly after 11 PM. I grabbed my backpack and hopped out, agreeing to stay in touch via email to meet up tomorrow.

Once inside, I got my keys, sheets and map, giving the guy behind the desk my passport in lieu of payment (as I had no Canadian cash), and headed upstairs to get a look at my home base for Montreal. Four bunk beds were wedged into room 207, and all four lower bunks were claimed by sleeping bodies. There was another person asleep in one of the upper bunks, while a further top bunk bore the blankets and belongings of someone who was apparently out somewhere. I took the top bunk in the furthest corner from the door, so that there would be less traffic walking past me. Dropping my backpack and slinging my camera over my shoulder, I set out to soak up a bit of the city before retiring for the night.

According to Kristina, Montreal is the party capital of Canada. I can confirm that, having seen a mixture of well-coiffed revelers in their late teens and early 20s drinking, dancing, stuffing their faces with souvlaki and vomiting on the sidewalk. Americans, Quebecois and other Canadians all seemed to be represented. I took in the pleasant air enjoying snatches of conversation in different languages during a lovely stroll. Making my way back to the hostel, I gazed more than a little jealously at the small groups clustered on glowing balconies and wide stoops, goblets of wine in hand and French on their tongues.
Saturday morning, I woke up at 7:30 determined to get an early start and make the most of my visit. The first order of business was finding an ATM and paying my hostel bill so I could reclaim my passport. Finding the ATM wasn’t hard; using it was. My initial attempt at withdrawing funds met with a “Transaction Unable to Be Completed” message. I’d been down this road before.

Previously, I’d traveling to Italy, where my attempts to use an ATM failed and I had to call them to straighten it out. Fast-forward a few months and I planned a trip to England and France. This time, I called beforehand. Nevertheless, Bank of America blocked my card, stranding me overseas without access to money. I barely had enough US cash to exchange and take the tube to my hotel in London, where again I had to call them to straighten it out.

Though I once again called Bank of America before leaving for Canada and informed them of the dates and locations of my travel, I foolishly thought that would be sufficient. Once again, I was stranded abroad without access to my bank account. Furious, I took my phone out of “Airplane Mode” and called the number and navigated to the “having a problem with your card” area. I went through an automated series of questions, where I provided various information, including parts of my social security number. After confirming my most recent withdrawals as being legitimate, I was given my balance and thanked by the robot voice. I tried my card again. Nothing.

Again I called, this time getting an operator, who asked me more questions. I gave my social security number, and was asked if there might be other names on my account. While with Bank of America, family members have been attached to my account, so I said yes, possibly my brother. At this point, I was informed that “one or more of the answers provided were incorrect,” and I would have to either visit a BOA banking center or fax a copy of my driver’s license and signature to Bank of America. I was then informed that there were NO BOA banking centers in Canada. I don’t get angry often. I was now angry.

Do people even have fax machines any more? If I couldn’t take money out, exactly how was I supposed to pay for a fax? Why did I waste 30 minutes informing Bank of America that I would be traveling to Canada? I hung up and called again, hoping for someone a little more reasonable. No, I still had to fax a copy of my driver’s license and signature. Apparently knowing my social security number, balance, last deposit amount, city where I opened my account, card number, PIN number and birthday was insufficient. I hung up again and emailed Canz, briefly explaining the situation and asking him if I could possibly borrow enough to pay for the hostel. Then I went for a walk.

I walked a few miles and headed back to my lodgings, where I saw Canz and K. They’d actually gone inside and tried to pay for me, but needed Canadian currency. We all found a bank where Canz lent me enough to cover my room, plus some spending money besides. Thanking my lucky stars for such generous friends, I paid my hostel bill and reclaimed my passport. After such a trying morning, the best balm we could think of was a crepe.

Coming into town the previous night, we’d seen Le Triskell – La Creperie Bretonne, an authentic-looking creperie specializing in food from Brittany, where Kristina’s ancestors hailed from. We stepped into the wood-and-plaster interior and sat happily down at a small table with a red and white plaid tablecloth. The house white wine was cool and refreshing, while my jambon et béchamel (ham and béchamel sauce) crepe was as delicious as it was mysterious.

After lunch, we strolled down Rue St-Denis through the Latin Quarter, the Village and into Old Montreal. We saw neat little shops, street performers, cyclists, hookah bars and cafes. We passed the Molson Brewery (no tours on Saturday!?), walked through Chinatown and stopped for frozen treats along the Vieux Port Montreal. Lingering in the shade of the park for a while, we next walked in no particular direction, eventually making our way to Notre-Dame, an impressive cathedral downtown. Kristina arranged for us to have dinner with her family at her grandfather’s favorite restaurant, so we killed a couple of hours by finding a cafe and enjoying an apéritif while watching the cars, bicycles and pedestrians pass by. The excellent meal of ossobuco and wine, plus the considerable amount of walking had made us rather tired, so we called it an early night.

I was up again early the next morning to take a shower, after which I strolled through several small parks and grabbed an English-language newspaper with a cappuccino and “panini matin” at a nearby cafe. In the course of my wanderings, I happened by the restaurant where we’d eaten the night before and snapped a quick picture.  As I did so, I was approached by a woman.

“Do you know this area well?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, for reasons I didn’t fully understand.

“Can you tell me where I can find a hair salon?”

“Certainly, if you continue down this street two blocks, there are several salons on both sides of the street. It’s early, so they may not be open yet, but there are quite a few.”

Giddy with my new role as knowledgeable local, I set off again on foot, eventually finding a grocer, where I picked up a wrap for lunch and some Nutella to take home with me. I also stopped at a patisserie and picked out a decadent brick of pastry called a mille-feuille (lit. thousand sheets). Planning to take my lunch in the Mont Royal park, it was an easy matter to keep walking uphill until I found myself at the base of Montreal’s namesake. Finding a shady bench was easy, and I polished off my wrap and dessert with gusto, drawing more than one bitter look from joggers who happened by.

Feeling guilty about my calorific indulgence, it was an easy decision to climb the mountain. There was plenty going on in the park surrounding it, with music, dancing, hacky sack, a craft fair and some sort of medieval skirmishing group. I watched the latter for quite a while and took several pictures before heading further up the hill. There was an easy, gradual, wide gravel path that wrapped around Mont Royal, suitable for bicycles and runners. I chose to scramble up the much steeper, rocky trails, my flipflops drawing pointing and what I assume were amused comments in French by the older adventurous folk I passed on the trail. A smile and shrug was all it took to pretend I understood. I gained the top quickly in a fine sweat and took some pictures of the surrounding city.

Going down was even more challenging, and I had many a sturdy tree to thank for my safe passage. Since it’s nearly autumn, I thought I might be able to find a mooncake in Chinatown, so I took a walk through. Sadly, none of the bakeries or confectioners seemed to have them. I made my way back to Quartier latin, searching for a terrace where I could enjoy a beer and watch the crowd. 3 Brasseurs had everything I was looking for, so I settled in with a litre of amber ale and a crossword. Some more walking brought me round to Rue St-Denis, where I saw Canz and K. We walked a big loop around Le Plateau Mont-Royal and finally settled on a vegetarian Thai restaurant for dinner. I was quite taken with our waitress, whose fuzzy brown hair, long eyelashes and intoxicating French earned her the secret moniker, “Montreal Wife.”

After we ate, we decided to check out a happening hookah bar down Rue St-Denis, where we waited outside for a bit before scoring a small table in the corner. The place was low on staff and high on customers (many of whom were perhaps high on something), and our drinks came slowly while we talked about which flavor of smoke to enjoy. Strawberry being out, we settled on melon, which was quite tasty. We chatted, gawked at the art students at the next table and failed to blow smoke rings before hotfooting it out so Canz and K could catch the last train out to the suburbs.

At 1 AM, it was a late night, but I was up again at 8 AM for a shower, walk, newspaper, cappuccino and breakfast croissant at Cafe Vienne. The light filtering through the large windows fronting the street was soft and warm, while a tiny bird hopped around the floor snapping up fallen flakes of croissant. I left the cafe in a delightful mood and set off to check out a vintage clothing store I’d seen closed the night before. Sadly, it was still shut, so I returned to the Square St-Louis to read by a fountain until I was due to meet Canz and K at noon. They picked me up in Canz’s car, and we drove over to the Biodôme. We spent a couple of hours walking through the different habitats. My favorites were the lynx, puffins, penguins and a porcupine that waddled over and munched heartily on an apple right in front of us.

A gondola ride up to the top of the Olympic stadium tower gave us a fine view of the city in all directions, much of which I felt like I covered on foot during my stay.

As it was mid-afternoon, we decided to head back to Connecticut to get home at a reasonable hour. We crossed the border into New York after a longer wait, but no trouble, stopped for sandwiches and passed the rest of the ride home discussing teleportation, evolution and history. Overall, it was an excellent trip. Montreal occupies a unique cultural space between North American and European, which was interesting and satisfying. It’s still the liverwurst to Paris’ foie gras, but it’ll tide me over until I can get over to France.

I need to once again thank Canz and Kristina for the huge amount of help after my banking fiasco. Beyond that, they were excellent traveling companions, easy-going, adventurous and fun. I definitely had a better time hanging out with them for part of the trip than I would have during a weekend entirely by myself. Thanks guys!

You can find more pictures from Montreal here.