Sean Aiken of "One Week Job" Interviewed on CNN

They call him a Career Adventurer.

Awesome.

(Don't know who Sean is? Read the post below or click here)

"One Week Job" On CNN: A Success For Original, Independent Online Media

One of the most interesting things about trying to make it as a travel writer has been learning about how the Internet is transforming the media industry in general, and travel writing in particular.

This is a story about how I met 3 Canadian guys who are building careers by tapping into the potential of the World Wide Web, and how creative individuals and online entrepreneurs can run circles around stodgy, corporate media.

....

The night before I tried to ride my bike across Eastern Canada, I hung out in Montreal with - Kyle, Ian and Sean - 3 Canadian guys who have launched an all-out assault on the gates of celebrity.

We ate in Kyle's apartment in Montreal's Plateau district. Kyle's last name is MacDonald, but he's also known as "That Guy Who Traded A Paper-Clip For A House".

I saw Kyle appear on a high-pitched Japanese variety show when I was living in Hokkaido. He made it through that show and eventually succeeded in leveraging the publicity from his One Red Paperclip project into a house - a house in rural Saskatchewan, but a house nonetheless.

I went to Kyle's place without knowing he was a "That Guy". I was there to meet Ian MacKenzie, founder of Brave New Traveler, the online travel and lifestyle magazine I'm editing. When Kyle answered the door, I thought something about him seemed eerily familiar, and when I saw a stack of "One Red Paperclip" paperbacks on the bookshelf, everything came together.

"You're That Guy!" I said.

"Yeah," Kyle answered somewhat ambivalently. "I'm that guy."

It was an interesting dinner conversation, because all the guys in the room were trying, in one or another, to establish themselves as Internet celebrities.

Ian, my partner at Brave New Traveler, has already fired one ambitious shot at the big media fortress: He once launched a Don Quixote style grassroots campaign to get himself on Survivor, an American reality TV program that didn't have any Canadian contestants.

In addition to BNT, Ian is working with his friend Sean, an affable dude (somehow clean-cut despite his long, blond dreadlocks). Sean and Ian are in the midst of creating an independent reality TV show called "One Week Job". The show follows Sean as he works 52 Jobs in 52 Weeks, with each new episode posted online. Before and after dinner in Kyle's apartment, he was firing messages back and forth with "Jay Leno's people."

I don't think Sean ended up working a week at the Leno studios (or landing that particular morsel of publicity), but his project was just written up in the Wall Street Journal, and featured on CNN.

Will Sean get enough publicity for a house, like Kyle? Or will he find a job so satisfying that he can end his "Odyssey" and settle into a career?

Will Brave New Traveler magazine become an online media heavy-weight?

I don't know - but I can tell you this: "One Week Job" is an intelligent, entertaining, timely and ad-free program.

I also know that Ian and I publish much better travel tips and articles than those "travel" magazines that try to sell you Cruise Packages and Hummers.

If you haven't visited BNT yet, come on by.

The Blue Side Of Lonely

Today I rode 85 kilometers to Bathurst, New Brunswick and bought a ticket for the night train to Montreal.

The train didn’t leave until 8 pm, so I went downtown and ate a plate of spaghetti at Bruno’s Bistro.

Bruno’s was decorated for a birthday party.

Red balloons drifted against the ceiling and pastel strips of tinsel paper were strung from wall to wall. I sat at a corner table by the window and watched a little girl with pale blond hair blow on a pink plastic kazoo. An old song came on the stereo – a sad, slow, country twang:

“I’m just on the blue side of lonely / Across from the Heartbreak Hotel / I’m calling to tell you it’s over…

I was the only customer.

….

Yesterday I rode 94 kilometers and crossed the bridge from Quebec into New Brunswick.

When dusk fell, I turned off on a side road, lugged my bike into some cedar woods and made camp with practiced efficiency.

When everything was staked out just so, I ate dinner. First a banana, then a peanut butter sandwich, then a Snickers bar. Then some more bread. Full and unsatisfied, I burrowed into my sleeping bag and read through the Official New Brunswick Vacation Planner by headlamp.

Usually I get a kick out of the bubbly language in tourist guides, but last night’s reading just annoyed me.

“Get ready for the great outdoors and the fantastic folklore of Dalhousie, nestled on the banks of one of the 30 most Beautiful Bays in the World!”

Dalhousie is a dying mill town with one of those lonely downtowns where only the Dollar Store, Chinese Restaurant and Pharmacy are still in business.

I know this because I followed signs to Main Street that led me down a steep hill. I was hoping for a grocery store, or maybe a café with free wireless, but even the Price Chopper was closed. Then I had to push my bike up an even steeper hill to get back to Rt. 134 and the Scenic Acadian Coastal Drive.

Dalhousie sucks.

Huddled in my pup tent in cedar woods outside Dalhousie, I stared at the map, wondering where I might find a bus station, how I might get home.

Later, I dreamed that I was looking at a map with a faint road…a shortcut…leading straight across Maine, dipping through New Hampshire and winding right down to Craftsbury, Vermont. I traced the route with my finger. Only 250 kilometers! Two hard days of riding and I could be….

Home.

….

This hasn’t been a bad trip.

I’m just tired and lonely, that’s all.

My thighs ache, my shirt smells and I spend a lot of time thinking about how nice it would be to wake up in my own bed and come downstairs to a full pot of good coffee on the breakfast table, Mom reading the New York Times, Dad off on his morning bike ride.

I’m tired of searching for wireless Internet to upload the articles that I edit at night in my tent. I’m tired of shaking out my stuffy sleeping bag and cramming my tent into its bag every morning. Most of all, I‘m tired of pedaling, pedaling, pedaling, uphill and down, day in and day out, without feeling like I’m really getting anywhere.

I could keep going. But I’ve gone through my spare tubes and the one in my rear tire has two patches on it. The nights are getting colder. The zipper on my rain jacket is broken. I’ve got articles to edit, editors to contact, interviews to finish and stories to write.

I need to learn some Spanish before moving to Argentina for the winter.

Excuses, excuses.

It’s time to go home.

Crossing the Chic Chocs

I’m typing in my soggy little pup tent somewhere in the Chic Choc mountains of the Gaspe Peninsula. It’s 8:01 pm and I’ve been in this tent since mid-afternoon, burrowed in my heavy down sleeping bag, watching the silhouettes of slugs ooze across the outer tent wall.

I’m wearing two pairs of socks, long underwear bottoms, ski pants, a long-sleeve polypro shirt, a windbreaker, a thick fleece and a wool hat with ear flaps. I’m not cold, but I’m not exactly warm either.

Since I started writing this post, I’ve sneezed three times.

Overall though, I’m doing OK. I’ve got two jars of peanut butter, most of a whole wheat bread loaf, half a block of Mozzarella cheese, a full water bottle and a Snickers bar, which I’m saving for later.

…..

Considering the weather, I covered some pretty good ground today.

Until yesterday, I hadn’t decided whether to continue cycling around the Gaspe peninsula on the coast road or cut through the Chic Chocs on Route 299, a 150 km stretch of highway that passes through the heart of the Parc De Conservation De La Gaspesie.

I made my decision at about 10 pm last night in the town of St. Anne Des Monts, in a bar where I couldn’t seem to figure out how to order only one beer at a time.

I was sitting between two absolutely gorgeous French Canadian girls, one tall and slim like a yoga instructor with short blond hair and a Lonely Planet guide to the Patagonian Andes in the backseat of her car, the other with dark-hair and twinkly, mischievous eyes who was wearing a satiny white blouse and giggled as she tried teaching me French verbs.

After several rounds of Labatt Bleu the brown-haired girl sighed and put her hand on my arm.

“Ah – I am so excited,” she purred. “Tomorrow I go to Quebec City to see my boyfriend! It’s been a whole month.”

“Marie is lucky,” she continued, reaching behind my back to poke the willowy blond in the shoulder. “Her boyfriend lives right here in St. Anne Des Monts!”

And then they got up and wiggled onto the dance floor, leaving me sitting across from a scraggly, thick-bearded man with a long ponytail.

“I work in the park,” he told me. “In the interpretation center.”

“That’s about 40 minutes up Highway 299, right?” I asked.

“Yes, almost at the top of the pass.”

“Any chance you could give me a ride as far as the interpretation center tomorrow?”

“No problem,” he said. “Be ready to leave at 9.”

…..

I spent a fitful night throwing cats off the futon in the over-heated apartment where I was couchsurfing and woke up with a stuffy nose to steady rain on the window glass.

“Maybe the weather will be better in the park,” said the bearded man, whose name I can’t remember.

And it was better – marginally.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle. White mists rose from the hillsides to mingle with low-lying gray banks of cloud. I strapped my pack to the back of my bike and started pedaling uphill.

Once in a while I was passed by convoys of pick-up trucks hauling ATV trailers and little shacks, like ice-fishing shanties, with stove pipes and tar-paper roofs – hunters bringing camp to the mountains.

Mostly though, I had the road to myself. It was a peaceful ride – looming mountains wrapped in wispy clouds, streams and beaver-dams at the roadside, fall color all around.

Someday, I’d like to come back and explore the Chic Chocs. There are herds of caribou in the high-country, salmon in the rivers, and little cabins with wood-stoves at the trailheads. Today, though, I just wanted to get some distance under my belt while the weather held.

In three weeks I need to be back home, and Halifax is still a long ways away.

There isn’t much more to tell.

I crested the pass about noon and flew down, down, down, singing “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash at the top of my lungs as my tires whizzed over the wet asphalt. Then the road flattened out and followed a river, one of the most beautiful trout streams I’ve ever seen, all smooth dark currents and rocky rapids. Green canoes were tied up at intervals along the river bank, but I didn’t see a single fisherman.

About 3 it started to rain. I wheeled my bike off the road and under some pines, sat down on my helmet and tried to wait it out. I got sleepy, tucked my head under my arm and tried to nap, but water kept dripping onto my face whenever the wind blew.

This is ridiculous, I thought. Might as well make camp.

So I did.

And here I am.

Matane, Quebec

75 km into a brutal headwind and driving rain. With each pedal stroke on the uphills it feels like someone is driving a knitting needle into the left side of my right knee.

If it wasn't for Couchsurfing.com and the wonderful hospitality I've received twice in the last three days, I might be on a bus back to Montreal. As is, I'm showered, full of beef stew and typing on wireless in a cozy attic apartment here in Matane.

Tomorrow I hope to make it to St. Anne Des Monts.

And to remind myself why I'm doing this trip, here's a photo of that magical sunrise the whales woke me up for:

Rimouski, Quebec

I've crossed to the south shore of the St. Lawrence and am typing in the Brulerie cafe in downtown Rimouski, making the most of a balky wireless connection before heading out along the Gaspe peninsula.

I'm trying to decide whether or not to circle the whole Gaspe or cross over the Chic Choc mountains and go straight down to New Brunswick. I want to have time for both Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton, Nova Scotia - and winter is fast approaching!

A new edition of Tales From the Road just went live at BraveNewTraveler.com, where I'm now co-editor.

Check it out by clicking here.

While you're at it, be sure to subscribe to BraveNewTraveler - it's free and takes only a minute. Click on the orange "RSS Feed" button in the top right corner of the screen.

To borrow the farewell salutation of Annie, a Quebec native I met last night:

Full Sun!

Whales at Dawn

This morning I awoke to the sound of whales coming up for air, a stones throw from my tent on the North shore of the St. Lawrence. I was camping with Worldhum.com blogger Eva Holland and we unzipped the door flap to see a spectacular sunrise, with whales rising like smooth black mountains from the sea.

After breaking camp we rolled into the town of Les Bergeronnes for brunch at the Monde et Mer cafe. I fired up my trusty little Powerbook and saw my feature article on Luang Prabang on the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle travel section.

To top it off, this morning the official announcement was made: I'm now co-editor of Bravenewtraveler.com. I'm stoked to make BNT the best travel magazine on the web, and am looking for contributors! If you like to travel and like to write, check out the submission guidelines and shoot me an e-mail.


By the way, the Monde et Mer campground just east of Les Bergeronnes, Quebec is one of the coolest spots I've ever camped.

Fueled by Poutine

My traditional bike riding diet of bananas, Snickers bars and peanut butter sandwiches has been supplemented by poutine, a Quebec delicacy of golden potato fries in a bath of warm brown gravy, topped with globs of chewy white cheese. For about an hour after I eat a dish of poutine I can't ride very fast at all, but for the next 5 hours - zoom! - it's like rocket fuel.

Here's a photo of a roadside poutine shack, or Casse Croute:



And here's the stuff itself...yummmmm....

Montreal to Trois Rivieres

Somewhere between Montreal and Trois Riviere, I came upon a pig’s head lying in the road. I couldn’t tell it was a pig’s head until I was almost on top of it. The road was straight, with corn fields on either side, and from far away I saw an object up ahead. I pedaled closer, growing more and more curious, until…Gah! A pig’s head!

The pig’s skin had been stripped off, leaving purplish flesh drying red in the sun. The jaw hung open, teeth fixed in a grimacing grin.

…….

A few kilometers on, an approaching car pulled over and honked. The driver – a beefy man wearing blue suspenders – leaned out and shouted something in rich Quebecois. “No Francais,” I shouted back, smiling apologetically and shaking my hand in front of my mouth in the universal gesture of non-comprehension.

The man didn’t care if I spoke French or not. Clearly, he was intent on telling me something. I crossed the road and went to his window. “No Francais, I repeated. “Je suis American.”

“Le Boer! Le Boer!” The man’s face was red as a cranberry. “Le Boer!”

Boer.

Boar.

I understood.

“Ah, Oui!” I yelled happily, pointing down the road. “It’s back that way. Not too far.”

Seemingly satisfied, the man pulled a U-turn and sped off the same way he had come - in the opposite direction of the pig’s head. Utterly mystified, I checked the map and pressed on for the next village.

……

It’s been a lonely first two days of riding. I had assumed that most French Canadians were like those I encountered in Montreal – native speakers of French, but perfectly capable in English as well. Turns out I was wrong. Out here, I might as well be speaking Japanese. I say Bonjour and Merci in gas stations and grocery stores, but aside from the man who may have lost his pig’s head, that’s been the extent of my human interaction thus far.

……

Last night I found a great campsite just as it was starting to get dark. Rt. 138 along the north shore of the St. Lawrence seaway is pretty heavily settled, so I turned off on a side road that crossed through potato farms and cornfields, aiming for a line of trees at the top of a small rise. The tree-belt separated two fields and the nearest houses were a few hundred yards away. Perfect. I didn’t even set up the tent, and stayed up reading by headlamp for a few hours after dark.

The campsite where I’m typing right now did not come so easily. I left Trois Riviere at dusk and stepped hard on the pedals, trying to get beyond the sprawl and into open country before dark. Rain clouds had threatened all afternoon and a few drops splashed off my jacket as I raced sea-going container ships up-river. The light was pretty well gone by the time I found a side road, and the first spot I tried was too exposed.

Another kilometer on were some raised railroad tracks and, just beyond, a tiny village. A dirt path ran down the side of the railway into some fields. On impulse, perhaps drawn by some latent railroad romanticism, I turned off.

After a few hundred yards the track passed along the edge of a cornfield. It was pretty dark and the wind was blowing hard. The slope leading up to the tracks was thick with scrub brush – no room for a sleeping bag, let along a tent. I dug into my pack, pulled out my little blue dry-bag and reached for my headlamp.

It wasn’t there. Oh shit.

I fumbled through my things – cell phone, cell charger, med kit, notepad, pen, Powerbar - maybe for some reason I had stashed the headlamp in another bag. Frustrated, I started tossing gear out onto the ground, then realized that without a headlamp, I’d might never find everything again. Besides, I always pack my headlamp in my little blue dry bag. I jumped up and down and swore for a little while. By now it was pitch dark.

For a few minutes I stood there in the cornfield, trying to figure out my next move. Then, in the distance, a white light appeared, moving fast in my direction. The train whistle blew and the engine zoomed on by, the boxcars following, clunkety clank, clunkety clank.

What was I thinking. There was no way I could get any sleep by the train tracks. Jack Kerouac was full of shit. I strapped my packs on my bike in the dark and went back to the paved road.

Past the village the road forked. I went right. It turned to gravel. I kept going. There were trees up ahead, black against a near-black sky. No houses. I parked my bike and plunged into the darkness.

Water. Shit! My foot was soaked. Try the other side. Shit! More water. But not so much…just a muddy trickle really…I pushed on into the woods, branches and thorns clawing at my face and arms.

The woods were boggy, but there were some dry patches too. I dug out my cell phone, flipped it open and shined its dim light into the forest. Ferns, vines, fallen logs…and an open space that might just fit a tent. Good enough for me.

Back at the road, I folded up my bike, took a wild jump over the stream and clambered into the brush. The handlebars and spokes were catching on branches, but I just pushed through, too pissed off about losing my headlamp to care. Finding the open space, I set down the bike and crashed back to the road to get my pack.

At this point my cell phone died.

There was no moon.

Back into the black woods, pack slung over my shoulder, blindly fighting through the branches and vines, slogging through squelching pockets of mud. I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face, let alone a little clearing with a bicycle. There was only one thing to do.

I opened my pack, dug out my trusty little Powerbook laptop and pressed the power button. It fired up with the happy little TaDa sound of a Mac computer. The blue light illuminated the darkness.

What the heck was I doing here, fumbling through the woods of rural Quebec with an open laptop, searching for my bicycle? What would I say if an irate landowner came along and discovered me?

“Don’t mind me, sir. I’m just a travel writer!”

Up ahead, the spokes of my bike gleamed metallic in the night. Somehow, I got my tent up and made a cozy nest inside. Not five minutes after I burrowed into my sleeping bag, it started to pour.

And that’s where I am now, in my tent, in a boggy wood somewhere outside Trois Riviere, typing this story while rain beats against the tent fly.

Truth be told, I couldn’t be more happy.