During my trip to Quebec City, I was hosted by Tryp Quebec Hotel PUR, in the district of St. Roch.

My driver picked me up and handed me a small bottle of champagne, which I promptly spilled all down my coat. We laughed. I did it a second time. Old habits die hard.

Om nom

I was wary of a minimalist type hotel, me being keen on colours and rainbows and magical leprechauns dancing around sunbeams (see: the swirly kaleidoscope of my blog header). But I realized my poor ignorant head had never actually seen tasteful minimalism before, and I loved it the minute I stepped into the lobby.

The dark grey hues of the hallway with neon-orange room numbers were also pretty sweet. And the white cleanness of everything in my room.

I was greeted by THIS upon entering my room:

Looking slightly maniacal

Cool, right? Even if they think I’m married. I’m not married. Mrs. Walsh has a lovely ring to it, though.

Here’s a little background info on the hotel:

TRYP is part of the Wyndham Group, with hotels all over the grid in Europe. The one in Quebec was the first to be opened in North America, but NYC quickly followed suit.

They mail postcards for you too, for free!

I typically don’t get excited over hotels, and I find few of them memorable. But TRYP has this thing about creativity. Many of their rooms are set up in themes to suit your needs: i.e. a Fitness room will come with work-out equipment and complimentary gym clothes. They have Family rooms to sleep eight, which includes bunk beds and a Nintendo Wii.

Initially I was a little pissed by not having a coffee maker in my room. Brewing coffee is the first thing I do when I get up in the morning, no matter where I am. But later in the evening, during a little presentation about the hotel, we were told that there was a free Italian coffee press in the lobby. The whole point of NOT having coffee in the rooms is so that we can socialize in the lobby.

Best view in the hizzouse

(And if you don’t want to socialize, I’m sure you can just slink away like a hermit.)

My favourite feature, however, was Lobbyfriend.net. It’s an app that works sorta like Twitter. You’re given a login password upon check-in, and access is free. You send out messages that other people in the hotel can read, so if you’re exploring a new place or simply wanting a friend to hang out with (maybe a little booty call on the side?), you’re able to connect.

It’s also a great way to pick the brain of the staff members, all of whom are TRYP Ambassadors passionate about their home. When I was there, someone had sent a message saying they were lost somewhere in Old Quebec, and one of the Ambassadors followed up immediately with directions.

Eat at the TABLE, the hotel's restaurant, even if you're not staying there. Do it. Try banana bread.

Finally, ask for their signature drink: gin, rosemary, rosemary syrup, and sparkling wine. It’s a good time.

When I told the bride-to-be I would have to work for a few hours every morning during her wedding trip to the Dominican Republic, she protested, “But you’re on vacation!” My response was: “The self-employed don’t get vacations.”

True.

But halfway through the trip, I suddenly realized the effort wasn’t worth it. At the Grand Palladium in Punta Cana, the sketchy Internet was only available in the lobby. Since the lobby wasn’t air conditioned, my laptop all but melted in the humidity. I kept getting interrupted by handsome men like Gaston who wanted to take me dancing at the disco off-resort. I tormented myself, stressed out over the details, and finally…I gave up.

I wrote all my clients.

“I’m so sorry, but I’ve had this trip planned for over a year and I simply will have to put my workload on hold until I return.”

I offered them refunds for the week of my absence. It sucked, but I didn’t have much choice.

I put away my laptop.

And then I had the best week of my life.

Hells yeah that's a beach

Dawne’s wedding guests — all 40-something of us — were mostly strangers before our week in Punta Cana. I knew three or four of the girls, and was reunited with my good friend Alana, whom I hadn’t seen in three years. But our group dynamic was so perfect, we all became great friends immediately. We even want to do a reunion trip next year.

Alana and I had many dance parties

We got completely filthy dune buggying for Dawne’s bachelorette party, spent an entire day at the swim-up bar drinking cocktails, danced until the wee hours of the morning at the discotheque, rescued a crab from the pool on my flip-flop, took midnight swims at the beach (and even a few skinny dips), drank Mama Juana, and ate all the ice-cream our little hearts desired. Sometimes we simply lounged around the lobby bar chatting and drinking mojitos.

The filthiest bachelorette party ever

My new nickname is TurboCandice™ for the night I declared I was getting Turbo-Candice-Drunk. Apparently my quote of the night was: “Hey, it’s the photo shop! I went there tomorrow.”

Making new friends

I didn’t even miss my Internet connection, not even for one nanosecond.

The whole experience was a big reminder that I am capable of living an unplugged life.

This was no small epiphany for me, friends. I travel fairly often lately, but even when the trip is free, there’s still a shit ton of work to do. Always. There’s lack of sleep, tight schedules, the constant pressure to be “on” and charming, and the knowledge that your whole career rides on how you can best create content that people identify with.

But this trip to the Dominican Republic? All for me. Pure, complete self-indulgence, with some amazing companionship. I had forgotten what it’s like to share a hotel room, and I kinda dig it.

I came home feeling relaxed, rejuvenated, and happy. Ready to kick some major life butt. Filled with adrenaline, and sweating vodka. Covered head to toe with mosquito bites. Malaria? Fuck it.

I know the all-inclusive isn’t a favourite among most bloggers, but we spend so much time searching for that sense of “place,” sometimes we simply forget about OUR place. Stop over-thinking and simply BE. I’m doing another all-inclusive to Jamaica next year, and I’ve decided I’m taking at least two weeks of annual unplugged downtime so I can keep my sanity intact.

You owe it to yourself.

Take a goddamned vacation.

Chocolate sushi.

The love for all things winter, even if the rest of us hate it.

Drinking all of the beers at La Korrigane.

This rabbit crossing in Old Quebec.

The Old Town in general.

Benjo, the coolest toy store in the history of toy stores.

Squeaky cheese curds.

This mannequin who apparently had more to drink than I did.

Making new friends in church…over beers.

And finally, markets stocked with places like Le Monde des Bieres. The only French words I know by heart!

Thanks, Tryp Quebec Hotel PUR, for making this trip happen. I’m off to the Dominican Republic for a week of fun in the sun with some good friend and a few (dozen) margaritas.

An opera singer greeted us at Église St-Roch.

A church by Quebec City’s standards. With its neo-Gothic exterior, it might be a cathedral anywhere else in Canada.

I was still tipsy from the brewery tour and overwhelmed by riding around a toy store on a train. The lady dressed in a blue gown belting out opera music made my head spin. My press trip folks and I were herded to the pews, where we sat in quiet, half-drunk awe.

When the singer finished her performance, we were told to move forward. Blue lights flared up around the church, illuminating the altar. The shadow of a server holding a tray crowded with glasses of champagne was headed in our direction.

Dinner on the church altar? WWJD?

Silvery couches and tables festooned with centerpieces appeared out of nowhere. Stunned silence gave way to excitement as our dutiful chef (who had been following us around for two days) and his crew rolled out platter after platter of tapas and beverages.

Take note, PR folks: this is how you do a press trip.

In our own bubble on the altar, surrounded by new friends we had only just met, I carried myself away on the music, the night, the alcohol. The duck-wrapped scallops and the sparkling wine with gin and rosemary. How quick we are to bond with each other when we have so little time to do it.

Between bites, we marveled over the absurdity of it all.

Every now and then I’d look up to find myself surrounded by religious displays, arched ceilings and towering columns.

I thought, I could get behind a religion like this.

I texted everyone I knew: “Dude, I’m drinking in a church right now. Not communion wine either.”

I sobered up when I had to make my way in darkness to the front of the church to use the bathroom. After all, I was in church. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

And yet there was nothing disrespectful about our merriment, just pure wonderment at the experience. Life. Respect. Awe. Camaraderie.

Somewhere between here and Florida and Peru I began questioning my credibility as a writer. If I take so many press trips, will my readers think I’m a sell-out? The blunt truth is that I wouldn’t have had half of these experiences without them, nor the new friends.

You’re here to read about my life. My story. I’m here to tell you life is grand. And thank you, Tryp Quebec Hotel PUR, for reminding me.

It’s been three years since I moved downtown, and it’s been three years since I’ve seen any icebergs around the city. I remember that morning when I drew back the window’s curtains to see a massive berg floating in The Narrows, just beyond St. John’s harbour. The best room with a view.

At first, I never cared about them. Giant blocks of ice playing idle on the Atlantic – what’s so special about that?

But then you find yourself in an iceberg’s presence, and it immediately commands your respect. Like some solemn but unearthly energy is being pulled up from the swells of the ocean, forced out of the greatest depths to beat around the ice. Don’t get too close, it warns.

You will find no rowdy, carousing spectators watching an iceberg sit in the ocean. Those who observe are silent and still, as if any decibel of noise will cause the berg to calve or roll. It might, actually.

And when you’re there, you’re thinking about how much it’s seen as it made its way down through Iceberg Alley, taking a year-long journey from Greenland or the Canadian Arctic Islands, carried south on the Labrador current. It’s felt the passage of time like we all do, 15,000 years of it. But it had grown weary, and broke away.

But now we all come to sit, stand, and observe. Snap photos, and even climb it.

And when we’re done with all that, we’ll make vodka.

There’s never been anything I couldn’t mentally do.

And then a few weeks ago I found myself standing atop an 18-storey hotel sobbing into my tour guide’s chest.

MOST of these awesome people made it

Yeah, I’m a wimp. Wanna fight about it? I’m only beginning to understand this, turns out. I’ve ridden my high horse from Vancouver to Peru this past year, conquering fears while rock climbing on cliff faces and inside gyms, and generally laughing in death’s face while being tossed around white-water rapids in a dinghy.

I’ve always said it’s not the height that freaks me when flying, but the lack of control. I have fear of equipment malfunction, or something. A complete lack of faith.

But I’ve always just done it.

That day, I found myself on top of the Tryp Quebec Hotel PUR, with the opportunity to décalade down the side of the hotel. It SOUNDS like rappelling, but it’s not: you’re actually facing the ground, and your body is fully extended.

I figured I’d calm down after being all geared up.

I went through my own safety demonstration with the guides. I crowded around the edge of the hotel roof. One-by-one, volunteers began making their way down the side. Even the big, burly men were clearly terrified: they sat on the edge of that roof trying to slide their feet forward but being unable to take their eyes off the bottom. One-by-one, they all made their way down.

People on the rooftop of other buildings took pictures. Folks in the streets paused to watch. And those brave souls just walked straight down the side of that hotel like it was nothin’.

Rockin' it!

I wasn’t the only one crying. The only difference is that I freaking lost it, and could not control the sobs coming out of my mouth. I stood up there for hours trying to gather myself, while some of the group even came back for thirds…and FOURTHS! Their big grins and ecstatic energy told me what I was missing out on.

One friendly guide in particular walked me through the procedure THREE TIMES to explain how the gear held up. They hugged me, reassured me, and were generally AMAZING about the whole thing. And finally when they strapped me in and pushed me to the edge of the hotel, and I dangled my boots over the side, I was gripped with the most blind panic I’ve ever felt in my life.

NO NO NO NO NO! I just kept it saying over and over again, until the guide eased me back off the roof. I unhooked, ditched my gear, and ran to my hotel room without evening saying “SEE YA!” to my awesome guides.

Yeah, this is what I dealt with.

Damn, you guys. I totally failed. Will I deal with it next time? Will there be a next time? Who knows. I’m okay with being a pansy though, even if I missed that adrenaline rush.

Thanks to the décalade team for being so freaking awesome! And for patiently dealing with my whining. And for all the hugs. I loved the hugs.

Despite my wimpiness, if you ever get a chance to do something like this, FREAKING DO IT. Then call me up and laugh in my face. I’m okay with it.

I like my water bottle like I like my men: lightweight, and durable.

I’m lying. If that were true, my water bottle would be bearded and tattooed, armed with an acoustic guitar and enough strength to wrestle a gorilla.

This blog post isn’t about my preference in the opposite sex. This blog post is about my relationship with Bobble.

With my upcoming trip to the Dominican Republic, I’ve been working my ass off to get back into my bikini. I’ve even jumped back into group exercise classes at Goodlife – something I haven’t done in years. Last night I propelled myself through Zumba and Body Pump, the sources of my full-body agony this afternoon. I can’t even climb the stairs right now.

And throughout these trials and tribulations of fitness fanaticism, my little Bobble has been there.

The Bobble is all about portable filtration. The people behind the product have an important mission: to change people’s drinking habits by slowing the mass consumption of single-serve water bottles. I’m the sort of person who will drink the tap water in any location – which probably resulted in my intense bout of gastro in Ireland. If I had Bobble, perhaps my week of agony would have been avoided.

According to the Bobble website, “the world consumes more than 200 billion single-serve bottles of water per year.” That’s a lot of plastic.

I was invited to test-drive a Bobble. Initially, I thought it was just the filter: when the Bobble arrived in the mail, the bottle part was so light and flimsy that I thought it was just a sample to hold the filter.

But like all good relationships, first impressions were wrong.

Bobble and I, still happy after all these weeks

One day, while running on the treadmill, my mp3 player died. Suddenly, all I could hear was the insanely loud rattling of my heavy metal water bottle bouncing around inside the holder. I looked around, horrified that I was causing such a disruption among serious athletes.

Nobody cared, of course. It’s Goodlife. Do people even work out there?

Anyway, that’s when I started bringing my Bobble. I felt like a douchebag, filtering fountain water. But my Bobble and I have launched on this epic fitness journey together, and I’ll see it through to the end, dammit.

Plus we’re a sexy couple.

We’ve become so attached, that I temporarily went into freak-out mode when I thought I had lost my Bobble on the flight to Halifax. After a few minutes of panic, the couple behind me handed over Bobble and said he had fallen from the overhead luggage. Sometimes you don’t realize what you have until it’s lost.

Downside: When you’re sweating like a mofo and need to chug a gallon of water, waiting for it to filter through can be painful. Slow down, you animal.

Alright, so there might just be a new contestant in my Favourite City in the WORLD EVER competition.

I love the French.

A few weeks ago I was invited on behalf of Wyndham to check out their new TRYP Quebec Hotel Pur located in the sexy St. Roch neighborhood of Quebec City.

There was a heavy, HEAVY emphasis on food. The French like to eat. Quelle surprise!

I was only in the city for three days, but I’m pretty sure I gained 5 lbs. The chef from Table (the hotel restaurant) literally followed us around. I’m not kidding. We show up at the art museum for a tour and he’s just chilling out flipping burgers on the grill. NBD.

Tapas Tapas Tapas

I didn't even know what this was, but I ate it.

I especially LOVE tapas culture. Seriously, our first night’s dinner at Table turned into a 40-tapas meal extravaganza:

I always judge the deliciousness of my meals by how unpronounceable the menu items are.

POUTINE!

It looks like a regular fast food joint, but do not be deceived.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do and eat your friggen face off. I was told several times that Chez Ashton HAD to be on Things to Do list. Established in 1969, the venue became the original home of the poutine.

It’s always fun to watch Americans try poutine for the first time. A dish that’s so commonplace to Canadians seems horrifying to foreigners…until they try it. But Ashton’s was like an awakening for me, too.

I opted for the classics cheese curds and poutine sauce combination, although Ashton’s lets you add a whole slew of other ingredients (like green peas).

I never knew what “squeaky cheese curds” meant until that moment.

I'm returning to QC just for this

How can I return to the lazy poutine way of shredded cheese and gravy dumped on top? Get with it, Canada!

BOOZE!

The French-Canadians share one very important similarity with Newfoundlanders: we love booze. It’s sold in convenience stores, for the love of god.

On our city tour, we swung by the Marche du Vieux-Port in the Old Port. Open all year round, the market features fresh fruits, veggies, and other local products.

My group didn’t get far before we decided to try the iced apple cider wine made by the Bilodeau cidrerie. I loved the icy bite of apple so much that I bought a bottle for Cailin’s mother as an apology for drunk sleepwalking at her house the previous weekend.

Naturally, I also had to stop by Le Monde des Bieres: The World of Beers. Pretty much the only French I understood. If you’re ever there, make sure you pick up some beer from Dieu du Ciel!

In the St. Roch neighborhood, stop by for a taste platter of beer at La Korrigane brewpub. It’s only $10, and even the coffee porter is delicious.

I was neck-to-neck with another press trip member for the beer drinking competition. Everyone thought she won; little did they know the non-beer drinkers kept replacing my empty glasses with their full ones...

A FISH, A FISH, A FISHY OooOO!

Finally, although I didn’t get to actually eat here, I paid a visit to the new JEF poissonnerie. You can purchase fresh fish here, or premade dishes. The dude who runs it is young and really knows his stuff, so make sure you swing by and support a small local business.

It's really hard to say "poissonnerie"

Plus they have log stump stools. I’m a fan.

My life is a strange conglomeration of paradoxes. I often make this statement to my friends: one week I can barely afford to pay my rent, and the next week I’m being whisked off on luxurious trips to fun destinations.

I like the variety of experiences I have along the way, including accommodations. I’m pretty happy in a hostel, but every now and then I want a mint on my pillow, goddammit.

In Orlando, I was fortunate enough to stay in an incredibly upscale suite at the Westin Imagine, an Aeroplan partner hotel. I arrived disheveled and tired after losing my luggage, and was so happy to just retreat to my room.

I seriously miss this place

Serenity now

Perhaps that’s what I loved the most about this whole Orlando experience: it was a true escape. Other than a couple of planned activities, I had a full week to myself. And with the hotel being so amazing (and unbelievably quiet), I was quite content to spend a day or two unwinding by the pool or catching up on writing from my balcony overlooking the resort.

The pool, by the way, rocks. I was feeling mildly self-conscious about swimming alone, but a text from my friend Glassman saying, “Seriously, how often do you get the opportunity to swim in an outdoor pool?” snapped me out of my attitude. If I could be a mermaid and live in the water, I would.

For the first time in weeks, I also took the opportunity to wake when I FELT like it. Imagine that! And then I’d simply stretch out in my king-sized bed and turn on the TV for some morning news.

Ooh la la

Wine and dine

The Westin Imagine also made me confront that awkward feeling you get when eating alone. I brought a book with me to look less like a loser at the swanky Fiorella’s Cucina Toscana, but I’m not so sure it helped. I couldn’t figure out what to do with the crumbly cheese on my dish, and accidentally spilled half of it in my lap.

The restaurant, however, was pretty damned good. I ordered the lobster ravioli the first night and then a whole slew of other dishes for the following nights. And beer. Cannot forget the beer.

I had to like, actually put some effort into appearance before eating. Ballin'.

All class, all the time. New blog slogan.

Good service goes noticed

My favourite part of the hotel? The service was exceptional. Employees were incredibly kind to me when I lost all my stuff, and even replaced half my toiletries. Then when I wanted some information for the area, they went out of their way to help me out. Even the pool staff were crazy nice.

The maids even learned my morning coffee habits, and brought me extra packets. Bless them!

BLISS!

WiFi is a MUST, and so are other tech-friendly options

My least favourite part? Being a hotel largely focused on the business traveller (the insanely big convention centre is directly across the road), I had to pay $15/day for Internet. Yes, I ended up spending over $200 for Internet, and sometimes for only a couple of hours a day. Free WiFi is SO important! Dishing out that cash broke my heart.

Cool new technology alert: Hotel merchant credit card processors take hospitality to a whole new level.

Location

You’d be wise to get a rental car, especially if you’re here for the theme parks. Orlando has a lot of freaking sprawl.

**Thus concludes my Orlando adventure! Up next, getting drunk on a church alter in Quebec City.