Those who know me quickly find out that I’m quite a fan of U2.  Some might even call me a fanatic.  Although I will refrain from launching into panegyrics now, I will note that they are everything that one could want in a band.  Check them out, if you haven’t already done so.

Back in early 2010, I bought four tickets to their 2010 summer show here in Toronto.  Unfortunately, Bono hurt his back, and I had to wait another year, until July 11, 2011, when the band rescheduled their next show.  After an already stellar summer (see my previous posts on Sweden), I was pumped.  The day finally rolled around, and I scheduled the afternoon off of work, so that I could transform my general admission tickets into a spot inside the stage.  I’m not ashamed to say that I waited for around 8 hours.  The fact that I was joined by my friend Kiernan made this wait easier.  Well, we finally got inside the stage, and we realized that the view would actually be better from outside of the stage, but directly in front of the centre of it.  After strategizing extensively about the balance between staying hydrated and avoiding the need to go to the washroom, we were set in a pretty sweet spot, right near the front of the stage.

U2's 360 Screen in the Rogers Centre.

The time passed with good company, and Interpol, the opening band, took to the stage.  I was not a fan.  That is all I will say about them.  When they got off the stage, the anticipation for the real band began.  This was my second time seeing the band, but I was still excited.  As they did previously, the band emerged to the strains of David Bowie’s “Space Oddity”.  But although the show started in the same way as it had before, I would say that it was a very different concert from last time.  Most notably, instead of heavily promoting their new(ish) album, No Line on the Horizon, it was more like a greatest hits night.  In fact, they included songs from every single studio album they ever produced.

Bono Mid-Song in Toronto

They opened in rock and roll style, with a convincing rendition of Achtung Baby’s “Even Better than the Real Thing”.  They next moved into a personal favourite, from the same album: “The Fly”.  This, too, rocked hard.  The rock continued fast and furious with the ear-candy of “Mysterious Ways” set against a psychedelic visual display.  They followed this brilliantly, with a fourth song from Achtung, “Until the End of the World”, possibly my all-time favourite song of theirs.  It was easy for me to read this unusual rendition of the Last Supper and Betrayal of Christ, a song of sin and redemption, as a response to the previous three songs, which are almost exposures of the unholy trinity of money, power, and sex.

I looked around me, and it seemed like a religious experience to some.

Bono and Adam Clayton

They followed it with the heartfelt “I Will Follow”, from Boy.   I will not go on to outline every song, but highlights included “Beautiful Day”, “One”, and “Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me”.  Perhaps the most moving song of the evening was Bono’s rendition of “Miss Sarajevo”, a single from the 90′s.

The little spiritual comments Bono would throw out from time to time were intriguing.  To talk about this, though, would open a can of worms which I do not have the time to deal with.  I will only close in saying that it was a phenomenal show and that if they played for half the time they did, I would have considered it worthwhile.

The Netherlands, however, is like no other land I have seen from the air.  Even the Canadian prairies cannot compare in regularity to the pancake-flat expanse of farmland, scored by lines so straight they could have been made by the ruler and pencil of an obsessive-compulsive giant.  The man-made appearance of the Dutch landscape is no illusion, though; the Dutch people carved much of their land from the sea with great effort and tenacity.  As a result (0r a cause), the Dutch seem to possess a certain confident pragmatism.

Flying into Amsterdam

I had flown into Amsterdam Schiphol before, but I had never had the opportunity to wander away from the airport.  On my way back from Sweden, I had to spend the night in Amsterdam, and I was quite excited, even though I was sick.  I flew in at about 9 PM, and I collected my bags, eventually finding a ticket vendor for train tickets into Amsterdam proper.  I can’t say that I found the people waiting for the train to be particularly helpful to a newcomer.  The double-decker train soon picked me up, and I found myself rolling through ugly concrete suburbs which easily could have belonged in any North American suburb.  Before too long, I’d arrived in Amsterdam Centraal, in the heart of historical Amsterdam.  It was twilight, but the streets were humming with people.  My first impression was that there was something more aggressive and darker about Amsterdam than anything I had encountered in Sweden.  Nonetheless, there was also a beauty about the place, and the entire city oozed history, which was appealing to me, as I’d studied a lot of European history before.  I walked a rambling path to the hostel, trying to see as many sights as I could along the way.

A Typical Amsterdam Canal

Amsterdam is a mass of canals jostling with narrow streets; stone bridges appear whenever the two types of paths coincide.  The canals are full of bobbing little pleasure craft, while the streets are dominated by insane bicyclists with no regard for human safety.  There are many tourists in Amsterdam; not a small number of them look as if they are there to take advantage of the Netherlands’ lax drug and prostitution laws.  One young man, sporting a Berkeley shirt, did not know what I meant when I asked him to point out where North was, an event which caused me to question the rigour of the so-called elite American schools.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed seeing the city as I walked, or as much as one can when you are worried, in the back of your head, that you may not find your hostel.  I walked by the Oude Kerk, or Old Church, the oldest Roman Catholic church in Amsterdam.  Unfortunately, this took me closer to the Red Light District than I intended to get, so I just kept motoring along.  I walked close the old area where the world’s first stock exchange was established, the original source of wealth that probably allowed for the Amsterdam to be as grand as it is.  After a minor correction in direction (I found Amsterdam to be an easy city to lose track in), I eventually got into Jordaan.  Jordaan, apparently, used to be a poor area of the city, but came to be known as the haunt of Dutch artists, including Van Gogh.  As in the case of many gentrified neighbourhoods, what was once poor and shabby has become swank and oh-so-hip.  I got to the hostel, left my stuff there, and then decided to hit the streets for some midnight wandering.

After getting some fresh Euros from an ATM, I was ready to rock.  A few minutes down the road, I found Westerkerk, an old Calvinist church where Rembrandt used to hang out.  Just down the canal was Anne Frank’s house.  It was chilling to sit by the canal at midnight, imagining the pounding of Nazi jackboots looking for Jews, within living memory.

Westerkerk

I continued my journey to the city centre without incident save for encountering some drunk London girls.  Wanting to sample the local cuisine, I got double-fried fries with mayo on the side.  They were full of artery-clogging goodness, though I burned my mouth badly.  I also picked up that most Dutch of all treats: the Turkish donair.

Responsibility demanded that I return back to the hostel eventually, and I spent a short night repeatedly waking up, coughing like a plague victim, and imagining I had overslept, missing my flight.  I must have been a horrible companion in a 16-bed hostel.  Morning eventually broke over Amsterdam, and I shuffled downstairs and made the slow journey to Centraal Station, stopping at a cafe to drink a nice coffee in the presence of old Dutch men.

After a harrowing journey through the ticket counter, I was on a plane bound for Toronto.  Upon arriving, I went straight to work.  I had spent less than 24 hours in Amsterdam, but I had made them count.

A Shire-esque Barn

In the same vein, I would add, Swedes are a bit reminiscent of hobbits, albeit tall, blonde, graceful hobbits.  That is to say, they look nothing like hobbits, but seem to have the hearts of Bracegirdles or Proudfeet.  You see, Swedes love the pleasures of home and of the simple things in life.  Apparently, during the winter, they have a culturally mandated time on Friday nights called something like “snuggle time”, where you curl up in your little hole on Bag End and enjoy creature comforts.  But even in summer, they maintain an admirable focus on roast pig, fresh potatoes, strawberries, and local brew.  Very hobbit-like indeed.  When they gather, they enjoy things like drinking songs and simple, but fun games.  Swedes also have a tendency to keep to themselves and be a little shy, considering people from a village several miles away to be outsiders.  Hairy-footed of them.

A Lake in Eriksburg

Kevin and I decided, one evening, to go explore some of this Shire on a road trip to Eriksburg Nature Reserve and see the local wildlife.  Unsurprisingly, it was set in a gorgeous set of old woods, with trees overtaking abandoned farmsteads.  It didn’t take us long to see what became the star attraction: wild boars.  The first boars we saw were a couple family groups with boars, sows, and little piglets which had striped and spotted fur.  Kev got out of the car and faked running towards them; they fled like one body, making a loud snuffling sound.  We also ended up seeing a lot of deer as we drove along.  We enjoyed a brief stop by a lake, making jokes about the dating lives of the ducks that we saw.  On our way back, there was another family of wild boars, this time about 15 feet from our car.  Later, we spotted a solitary, black tusker that we estimated at around 400 pounds.

A Family of Boars in Eriksburg

This was not to be our only experience in the Swedish outdoors.  The next day, Kev and I packed our stuff and headed south, toward the Baltic Sea.  We crossed a little bridge to a small island on the Baltic and left the car, walking across a sheep pasture.  In this pastoral setting was an abandoned quarry, which seawaters had filled.  After some time of lazing in the summer Swedish sun, we doffed our shirts and did a bit of cliff jumping off the quarry walls.  Unlike the Swedes, we decided not to do backflips.  Even though I’d had a cold, it felt fantastic to hit the briney waters of the Baltic.  It was not as salty as the ocean, but it definitely wasn’t fresh water.   Interestingly, this particular hole is so deep that no one can give the exact depth of it; when scientists brought in depth finding equipment, they were stymied.

Cliff-jumping Spot by the Baltic

My time in Ronneby was not to last forever, though.  On my last night in Sweden, we headed to Al and Helena’s house for a tremendous BBQ, accompanied by Disa and Hedda.  The next day, Kevin took me to Karlskrona, a larger city on the Baltic Sea, and the home of the Swedish Navy.  A few hundred years ago, when Sweden was one of Europe’s most powerful states, Karlskrona was an important base, as it housed the Baltic Fleet.  Its historical importance can still be seen in its beautiful architecture.  It was a bittersweet day, as I got to visit yet another cool place with my brother, but I knew that I had to leave.  We spent our last few moments hanging out and talking on the train platform, sad that the time was coming to a close but grateful that it happened in the first place.

High Fashion in Karlskrona

We said our goodbyes, and I got on the train, silently speeding my way toward Denmark.

The Girls

When I got to Ronneby, my brother was right on the train platform to pick me up.  From there it wasn’t long before I was in his home with the ever-lovely Anna and the always-entertaining Molly, who had grown into a very hilarious, active 11-month old since I last saw her.   Molly and I would spend a lot of time going for walks in the park, riding around on her cart, and cracking jokes at the dinner table.

Molly and the Boys at Silverforsen

My brother is not the sort of guy to let the grass grow under his feet, and we soon were out exploring Ronneby.  Ronneby is a small-ish town in the south of Sweden with a fair dose of charm.  Houses occasionally jostle with rocks as big as houses for space beside the street.  The historic centre of town is a marketplace, where local farmers were selling sweet strawberries in season (they were delicious).  Above the market square is a church which dates from the medieval era.  The church is built in an architectural style which I’d never seen before and seems peculiar to Sweden.  Inside are the faint remnants of late-medieval wall-paintings of saints and a newer portrait of Martin Luther.  The doors still bear the axe-marks of maurauding Danish warriors, who attacked the village hundreds of years ago in an incident called the “Ronneby Bloodbath”. Below the city square, there is an attractive canal, with overhanging trees and grand old houses with leaded windows beside.

Brunnspark

But perhaps the gem of the whole town is Brunnspark, a very large park in the south of the city.  Part of the park is like a typical city park, with grassy spaces where families can picnic.  However, there is a big section of woods, which makes one feel as if one is in the middle of a remote forest.  Rocky oak, beech, and birch forests offer a green oasis, interrupted only by little lakes where you can swim.  Brunnspark is the sort of place which I would love to have by my house.

Anna's Kladdkaka

We also got down and dirty with Swedish cuisine.  On the whole, Swedish food seems to be both simple and good.  Fikka, the snacks which accompany the afternoon coffee, are practically an institution.  Biskvi, a symphony of chocolate biscuit and butter cream, is a clear front-runner in the fikka world.  But so is kladdkaka, a slightly gooey chocolate cake; Anna kicks butt at making this.  Cheese and vegetables with bread and coffee is a typical Swedish breakfast.  Prawn sandwiches is a perfect Swedish lunch.  Supper is often grilled meat or fish with delicious local potatoes.  Yum.  Swedish pizza, however, is unexceptional, with often bizarre flavour offerings, like banana.

Midsommar Tree

Before we knew it, it was Midsommar.  Kevin’s buddy Tim and his family came down, and we hit Brunnspark for a few festivities.  Midsommar brings out the quaintness of Swedish culture, with girls wearing flowers in their hair and people gathering to dance around a maypole to accordian music.  It’s a really fun time, with people just enjoying the beautiful summer weather and picnicking.  In the evening, we headed to Anna’s mom’s cafe on the edge of town, and we grilled a lot of meat and had a grand old meal.  The boys stayed late, eventually stumbling home through the pitch-dark woods, and by the time we reached home, the sky was starting to get light.

Grilling Meat

The following day was also considered Midsommar, and we spent it at Anna’s brother’s house with the whole family.   Once again, there was much grilled meat, but this time, there was the addition of snapps, a traditional Swedish drink to be accompanied by drinking songs.  It was vile, more to be endured than enjoyed.   The smoked eel, however, was tremendous.  After dinner we amused ourselves with games in the backyard and klodkokka.

Summer really is a good time to be in Sweden.

Less than two days later, I was sitting with a couple of Dutch teenagers, on a flight to Amsterdam, getting there the morning of the 21st.  I then got on another quick hop of a flight to Copenhagen, and I was in Scandinavia.  I had just one step to go: the train to Sweden.  After I found the train station in the airport, I killed some time trying to find food.  Unfortunately, prices were extortionary ($15 for a hot dog, anyone?), so I opted to wait till Sweden to eat.  After making friends on the platform with a Ghanaian guy who lives in China, my train came.  I hopped on, excited for what lay ahead.

Oresund Bridge to Sweden

I had heard that Denmark is quite a centre of design, and even the next part of the train journey confirmed that.  The electric train sped underground for some time, until it emerged onto a bridge in the Baltic.  I say in because the bridge did not start in Denmark, but rather came out of the sea as a tunnel and became a bridge.  The view was pleasant, with the flat green lands of Denmark lying behind and Sweden, with my brother and his family, ahead.  In between was the blue band of the Baltic sea, criss-crossed by white-sailed pleasure craft and freighters, shipping the goods of Germany, Sweden, and Poland to the rest of the world.

The lovely scene was interrupted by a Swedish border patrol, working its way through the car with a sniffing-dog who ended up finding a guy trying to bring hash into Sweden.

Southern Sweden Fields

As the train sped through Sweden, the countryside of Scania, the southernmost province, took on a verdant green shade, with woods interrupted by wheat fields.  As fascinating as it was, I drifted off.  When I woke up, I struck up a conversation with a Swedish schoolteacher who couldn’t have been nicer.  Before I knew it, I had made a friend, and I was in Ronneby.  I craned my head to the window, and there was my brother in his ball cap, waiting on the train platform.   It seemed incredible that in a few short days of planning, and in what seemed like a quick succession of steps from my front door in Toronto, I was with my brother in Sweden!

Back in May, A-Mac and I booked off a long weekend, packed our car, and hit the road.  I was a little nervous, as I’d been sick all week with a cold and fever, and I’d barely been eating.  Nevertheless, this was the weekend we had planned for, and I was not going to let a little illness keep me from going.  After visiting Superburger, stopping at the incomparable D&B Country Market in Chatsworth, picking up some hitch-hikers, and obtaining our camping permits, we were in Tobermory!

As, by this time, it was afternoon, with a long distance ahead to cover, we were anxious to hit the trail.  This, too, took longer than expected, as it was nearly impossible to get a consistent answer as to where we could park in Tobermory.  Nevertheless, we dipped our hands in the beautiful Tobermory harbour, took our picture by the Northern Cairn of the Bruce Trail and strode on our way, bags on back, and map and sandwiches in hand.

Where It All Begins...

In a matter of minutes, we were in the land section of Fathom Five National Marine Park, a section of the trail with well-groomed, well-marked paths.  We stopped briefly to climb up a fire-tower, which gave a majestic view over the surrounding forests, shrowded in mists.  We were not intelligent enough to take our heavy packs off before we climbed the tower.  This sections gave me an opportunity to adjust the straps on my new pack.

After a brief navigation error, we broke left, onto a more rugged section of the trail, with limestone spurs running across the path.  We crossed Dunk’s Road, and continued on into some mature deciduous forest, before breaking north, and continuing along the wave-pounded cliffs of Georgian Bay.  The trail was starting to get a little more rugged, with some scrambling up and down rocks, but the views were like something out of a fantasy novel.  After heading back inland, through some cedar forest and farmer’s fields, we hit Little Cove Road and looked at the map, discouraged by the distance we had to make up.  Making the situation worse was the fact that the terrain would be some of the most challenging that we would face on the entire trail.  Frustratingly, I could feel that my illness had taken a lot out of me.  Nonetheless, we stopped for a quick snack walked the road to the coast, seeing some divers, the only human beings we would encounter on the trail that day.

This section of the trail lived up to its reputation.  Progress was sometimes slow, with a few ambiguous trail blazes, steep climbs, and lots of winding which the map did not quite seem to capture.  While scrambling up and down rocks, the fact that we had overpacked became apparent.  Feeling tired from a sick week, I stopped for some food and water, and we discussed the trail ahead: with the pace we were keeping, we were both anxious to get to Stormhaven as soon as we could.  We pushed on quickly, through some fairly swamp wetlands, swinging around a bay.

Cliff on the Bruce Peninsula

The sun was getting dangerously low.  I estimated we had half an hour to work with, and we were many kilometres from our objective.  After a brief, but vigorous discussion, we decided that, regretfully, we had to make the safe decision and bush camp.  We did not want to stay on someone’s property, but this was a matter of safety.

It was the right decision: Andrew set up the camp site, while I prepared a cooking area and bear-proof food storage area.  The rocks in the area, and for the past few kilometres, were scored with bear claw marks.  We barely set up a moment too soon, as while we were both finishing our preparation, darkness descended.  A bit discouraged, we ate our sausages and couscous,  pulled the food up a tree with a rope, and hit the hay.

It rained hard during the night, and we woke up to a cold and wet morning.  It would rain all day, only to be interrupted by sleet.  Nonetheless, we packed camp and disembarked with a spring in our step.  The trail ahead had some fairly easy sections, but also some challenges, such as beaches covered in small, round rocks, which we called “ankle-breakers” for the attention which they demanded on the hiker.  There were also steep climbs up the escarpment.  We did not like to stop, for, as soon as we stopped walking, we would shiver from the cold.

What the Bruce Trail means by "Beach"

We pushed on, hitting the boundary of Bruce Peninsula National Park, and seeing our first other people in a long time.  This section was mainly by the shoreline as well, requiring us to negotiate a stream and hop from boulder to boulder.  We eventually hit the Grotto and were thankful for an easier stretch of path.

This ended soon, and it was back to stretches of forest path with limestone spurs interrupted by the occasional boulder beach of several hundred yards.  It was fairly tiring, and somewhere along the way, I think I tweeked my hip.  We remarked how suicidal this stretch would have been if we had attempted it in the dark the previous night.

Looking at the map, we wondered where Stormhaven would be, as this was where our long-awaited lunch would take place.  It turns out it was several kilometres further than the map suggested.  Cold and exhausted, we walked into Stormhaven and hunkered down on the floor of the washroom, eating cold sausages and trail mix, shivering.  We were a sorry-looking bunch.

The hikers coming from the other direction told us that the trail after this point was abysmally slow in the cold rain.  We had a brief debate but decided that it was wiser to turn back, as we did not want to get stuck on the escarpment at night if we could not make it to High Dump in time.  It was already into the afternoon.

We doubled back on our trail, carried along by the thought of walking on even trail, changing clothes, and getting hot coffee.  Eventually arriving at the Parks Office, we got a ride back to Tobermory with the ranger, who was thoroughly impressed with the pace we had maintained.   Contented with this praise, we considered this expedition a success and a learning experience.

The Coffee Shop in Tobermory... Check it Out!

New clothes, coffee, and, eventually, hot baths all felt delicious.  For the time, our itch for hiking had been scratched.

Unfortunately, I ended up contracting poison ivy from this trip, and that is an itch which is not wisely scratched.  Ah well… it’s part of the adventure.

But first, let me introduce you to the Bruce Trail.

An overview of the entire Bruce Trail.

Northern Part of the Peninsula Section

For those of you who aren’t from my corner of the world.  The Bruce Trail is one of Ontario’s premiere hiking trails.  Stretching for a whopping 800 km, the Bruce Trail starts in Queenston River, very close to Niagara falls, and ends at what could pass for the end of the world, Tobermory, at the tip of the Bruce Peninsula.  It is built on top of the Niagara Escarpment, a line of exposed limestone cliffs that goes the entire length of the trail.   This provides for some stunning views over larger-than-life Canadian scenery; it is a painting composed of grey limestone, the temperamental waters of the inland sea we call Lake Huron, and woods which change from deep green to blazing orange to pristine white to pastel, depending on the season.

If you are any sort of a nature buff, it is an incredible place to be.  Asides from the usual deer, foxes, and black bears of this part of the world, the Bruce runs through some of the habitat of the threatened Massassauga Rattlesnake, rare orchids, and slow-growth cedars which are thousands of years old.  Simply stunning.  But it makes for some challenging hiking terrain.

The Turquoise Waters of Georgian Bay.

Joining me in my noble quest is my good friend Andrew McKenzie.  One of my best dudes, we go a long ways back.  His selflessness was perhaps best shown when, in Africa, he lent me the very shorts he was wearing so I could go surfing.  Nice.

Amac

Of course, we aren’t planning to do the entire Bruce Trail this year.  But we are setting out to hike the first section of it, the Peninsula section, running from Tobermory to Wiarton.  This section, about 150 km long, has some of the most challenging terrain on the Bruce Trail, but also some of the most breathtaking.  Starting in Tobermory, it quickly goes into Bruce Peninsula National Park, which includes the Grotto (more on this in a later post), Cypress Lake, and probably the single hardest stretch of the trail.  It then wheels south through Lion’s Head and Cape Croker Reserve to end up in Wiarton.  If we complete this section of the trail in a year, we’ll receive a nice little badge.

The Badge

However, even this limited section of the trail will require some sectioning and careful planning.  We will probably break it into four sections, and try to get long weekends between May and October.  Our first section is planned for early May, and should take us from Tobermory through Bruce Peninsula National Park to the other side.  Our first night will be spent in the park campground by Cypress Lake, and we will probably use the extra luxuries (re: available grills) to cook some nice meat over a wood fire and warm ourselves after some cliff jumping in the lake.  The second day will be a short hike, after exploring Cypress Lake, and will end up at Stormhaven, a two-man site on Lake Huron.  The third day will be a hard, long push over some of the most punishing terrain, ending in a nice sleep at High Dump, a minimalist site.  The fourth day, we will hike out of the National Park, rendez-vous with our car, and head back to Toronto for showers and hot meals.

A Cliff on the Bruce

There are still some issues to work out with this first section.  Free time has to be booked, gear has to be bought, and drop off and pick up arranged.  Asides from these fairly sweeping concerns, we will want to look closely at how we will pack for this four-day trip.  Obviously, we want to keep our weight down, but it could be good to pack some heavier luxuries like steaks which we could cook up on the first night.  Also, it would be great to figure out how to avoid poison ivy, which doesn’t seem to like me.  We can take a closer look at preparations in a later post, nearer to the trip.

In the meantime, check out this video of some cliff-jumping off the trail.

Its name refers to having the heart of a renaissance explorer.  In the age we call the Renaissance, the ideal man was multi-faceted: he learned, explored, wrote, swashbuckled, got into the occasional duel, and a whole lot more.  I always thought those men, like Sidney and da Vinci, along with their counterparts in other days, like Teddy Roosevelt, were pretty cool.  That’s where the “Renaissance” part of the title comes from, as it’s partly a blog about stretching one’s horizons and learning new things.  The “Adventurer” part is a bit more straight forward.

With this name in mind, this is going to be a wide-ranging blog about many things, with the over-arching theme of adventure and discovery.  Some posts may be about travels to places near or far; some places you will have to take a plane to, while others may be in the neighbourhood, hidden in plain site.   I will post about expanding more than physical horizons, trying new things, from the adrenaline-infused to the unexpected, in the true spirit of the Renaissance.   This blog has a place for learning how to surf as well as making the perfect pot of chili, although I don’t intend this to resemble Martha Stewart’s blog in any way.  And, I expect, there will be the odd hilarious shenanigan which I find myself in; these seem to happen with startling frequency.

Let me now say what this blog is not about.  It’s not about self-promotion or restless escapism.  It’s not another way of justifying my existence through doing more stuff.  Man cannot live on adrenaline alone, any more than he can on bread.   But it makes a pretty good spice.  This is also not primarily a reflective blog.  I have other outlets for that.

Finally, I have to give credit to the Art of Manliness, a fascinating blog which has often inspired me to tackle a new challenge.  I also want this to be a blog where I hear about your adventures, expertise, and experiences, too.