Canada | #03 | Opposites

22nd of April 2026 to 13th of May 2026

Approximate reading time: 10 minutes

Lets get it started

Hello world.

Quite the default statement when setting up a blog theme when you simply do not know what to write yet. What to share. You just want the template ready, the layout done, the frontend sorted, so to say. And then, eventually, you fill it with content. With stories. With pictures. And at some point, you start looking back.

That is exactly what I am doing right now. Sitting at the international airport in Vancouver, while a squirrel-sized dog barks through the entire terminal section, fully convinced it is the alpha wolf of British Columbia. People are rushing around — searching, arriving, departing. Tired. Happy. Excited. Broke? I would not be surprised about the last one, considering how outrageously expensive travelling seems to have become nowadays. Airport sandwiches alone are slowly approaching luxury item status.

And yet, here I am. Travelling. Again. Back to Europe. Back to Germany. Again.

The reason? A wedding. Again.

It almost feels like a copy of the last time I travelled to Europe. A blueprint, so to say. Same same, but still very different. Different me. Different experiences. Different country of departure. And, by default, being German means I am far too early. Boarding starts in five hours, luggage drop-off opens in three. So there is plenty of time to look back, look forward, look inside and outside. And sometimes, simply to observe. Observe without reacting.

So let us take a look at the observations from the past few weeks.

A rustic campground

There I was, at a rustic campground in the middle of Squamish. Or better said, slightly outside of Squamish, away from the busy highway. Still surrounded by industrial noises, random gunshots echoing through the valley every now and then, and the constant coming and going of people — the daily life of a campground.

And then there was me, somewhere in between the hustle and bustle. Going for a daily river dip in the nearby Mamquam River. Fed by glacier water, freezing freaking fucking cold. And yet so incredibly refreshing. Healing. Cleansing. (And yes, I only had one proper shower in four weeks — and no, I cannot smell myself, so I am choosing to believe I was perfectly clean.)

That river dip became a daily reset. Like switching my nervous system back to factory settings. Something I genuinely started looking forward to every single day. Something that grounded me. Reset me. Forced me to breathe and simply be.

Life at the campground itself was basic, rustic, easy. Cleaning duties in the mornings: toilets, dishwashing stations, garbage, recycling. Sometimes “special” projects like weeding, weed-whacking, sanding the container, or cleaning the Workaway area. And then? Time off during the day. Usually time for a walk, a dip in the river, a coffee, or reading a book.

Yes — books.

I have been to the local community bookstore multiple times and, believe it or not, I have already finished three books and started number four. Who would have thought? Me voluntarily sitting down and reading instead of pretending I will “read later” while scrolling nonsense online. Character development.

And of course, I was always on the hunt for good coffee. Thankfully, Squamish did not disappoint.

Sometimes the days turned into little adventures. Like the day Emily and I headed up to Lost Lake Hut — a hut built by John and volunteers back in 1990, serving as an emergency shelter complete with firewood, a stove, and even pots and pans. Honestly, I was half expecting to find a secret stash of questionable “herbal medicine” hidden somewhere under the floorboards.

We started hiking up an old logging road, overgrown but straightforward enough. Soon it was time to leave the road behind and enter the forest for what John casually called “shortcuts.” Which, translated into hiker language, meant: straight up the bloody mountain. Steep. Steep. Steeper. Guided by ribbons tied to branches — blue, pink, orange — without any obvious logic behind the colour system. Maybe the mountain just liked variety.

Somehow, we made it through the forest and up the mountain. Three hours later, there she was: a beautiful little A-frame hut, hidden in mist and clouds, surrounded by patches of snow and a slight drizzle. Sweaty, tired, but happy, we dropped our packs and quickly made our way to Lost Lake itself.

The lake was completely covered in fog. You could barely see five metres ahead. And then suddenly — as if somebody had pulled back a curtain — the mist started to disappear and revealed the entire scenery around us.

What a moment.

Five minutes of pure “wow” and “what timing,” before the fog slowly rolled back in and swallowed the lake once again, wrapping everything in grey silence and mystery. Like nature saying: Alright, show’s over.

Back at the hut: fire going, dinner cooking. Emily went for ramen and tuna. I had instant mashed potatoes with beans in tomato sauce — proper Heinz-style gourmet cuisine for exhausted hikers. The fire crackled, books came out, and bedtime arrived early. Sleeping upstairs in the hut felt oddly perfect.

Finally, another long-overdue overnight hike. The kind that leaves your legs sore but your soul strangely full again.

Back at the campground, weekends were chaos. Usually fully booked. Seventy campsites — walk-in and drive-in — and the four Workawayers somehow running the whole show. Checking people in, answering questions, having banter with campers, and repeatedly explaining things we ourselves had only learned a few days earlier.

Evenings were often spent around the firepit — at least until the fire ban arrived and collectively crushed everyone’s campfire dreams. We shared dinners, stories, and occasionally ended up in town for second breakfast pancakes or burgers and beers before people drifted off toward their next adventures.

Not much else to say about the campground really. The name says it all. Camping. And grounding.

Four weeks sleeping in the van. Daily glacier-fed river dips. Searching for the best coffee spot. Following the daylight. Living with the rhythm of the sun. Appreciating the simple but important things: shelter, food, water, snacks, and a genuinely good conversation.

And every now and then, Squamish decided to remind me that wildlife here is very much alive. Brown bears — small ones and big ones — casually wandering through town looking for snacks and entertainment. Climbing benches. Causing chaos. Having an absolute blast.

Maybe that is what life is all about in the end.

Just having a ball.

Outlook

Back to the airport. Back to now. Back to the future. Back to the past.

Heading off to Germany now. It almost feels routine at this point. Something I have done multiple times. Something I have somehow become used to. Something that no longer feels entirely unfamiliar.

I am excited. I am exhausted.

I am looking forward to seeing so many wonderful people again — friends, family — and simply having a ball together. A laugh. A hug. A short shared moment in time.

The first stop? A bachelor party and a wedding.

And this will be a fun, exciting, yet intense one. In Corsica. With my brother, my dad, and my mum. And for everyone who does not know the story — our family history is… complicated. Strange. Full of neglect, distance, and unresolved trauma.

And yet, somehow, we will all be there together.

Something I genuinely never thought I would witness. And here I am now, sitting at an airport waiting for a plane that will take me directly into that very moment.

So let us have a ball.

Next stop after the wedding? Germany, of course.

I have not seen many friends and family members in almost three years now. Somehow it feels like a lifetime and a week at the same time. Completely unreal and deeply real all at once. I miss people dearly. And yet, there are also many things from the past that I do not miss at all. Parts of my old life. Parts of my old self.

But what even is this so-called past life?

Is it something we still possess? Old memories, old emotions, old stories? Is it still “real,” or is it more like an echo — something that follows us around only as long as we keep shouting into the canyon, waiting for a response?

When I look at my own life, it has changed so many times, in so many directions, with so many different people, that I can barely see who I was years ago with complete clarity anymore. I cannot look at my past self without filtering it through the experiences and knowledge I have now.

The version of me from ten years ago would never have imagined openly sharing thoughts, stories, and emotions the way I do now. Out of fear. Out of doubt. Out of judgement.

And yet, I am still all of those things too.

I am still made from doubt, fear, mistakes, growth, challenges, and uncertainty. Same same, but very different.

Maybe the real question is: how often do we keep shouting for an echo? For a reaction. For validation. For a reason.

The past is a fascinating thing. We cannot directly change it — at least not if time truly only moves in one direction.

But perhaps we can change the meaning we give it. We can revisit it from a different perspective. Give it a different direction, a different energy, a different story. And maybe that, in its own way, changes the past too. Because changing perspective ultimately changes us.

So let us have a ball with the past, the present, and the future. Let us see what life still has to offer. Where we end up. What stories are still waiting around the corner.

And honestly? I do hope I end up back in Canada again — working with a local brewery, learning as much as possible, helping transform ideas into reality. Turning a seed into something sustainable. Something to share. Something to enjoy. Something worth writing about in the future.

So let us challenge the universe a little and see how it responds.

What else to say?

Revelations and insights while being in transition. Transition between countries. Transition between continents. Transition between lives?

I find airports rather fascinating places. They help us move from one point to another — faster, more conveniently, yet often with plenty of stress, exhaustion, delays, overpriced snacks, and busy people running around as if the fate of humanity depends on Gate B17.

And yet, travel itself is part of the story.

Because without travel, there would be no journey. And without the journey, there would somehow be no purpose.

Alan Watts once explained it beautifully: the purpose of music is not simply to reach the end of the song. The purpose of music is the music itself. The purpose of dancing is not to arrive at a certain spot on the dancefloor. We dance because dancing is the point.

Maybe life works the same way.

To have a blast. To dance. To have a ball. And somehow, along the way, remain sane, genuine, humble, and respectful human beings — learning, evolving, and hopefully making life a little bit better in whatever way we can.

I was about to finish this with the thought that being in transition always makes us want to arrive somewhere else. To finally get out of the uncertainty and reach the next destination.

But maybe the truth is that we are always in transition.

Always travelling somewhere. Always moving between versions of ourselves. Between the past us and the future us. Between old stories and new possibilities.

We are never fully “there.”

We are, in fact, in between. Every. Single. Moment.

Your DingyInternational
Felix