Sometimes when Eugene and the Other Demons gang up on me, I fight back. Blackbird Mavrias, I begin, First Nations photojournalist. Winner of a National Pictures of the Year award and an Aboriginal Achievement award.

That and a buck fifty will get you a cup of coffee at Timmy’s, says Eugene.

What about the death threats? says Kitty.

As well as an award from the Canadian Association of Journalists for outstanding journalism.

You kick some ass, says Chip, and they’ll pay attention.

Old news, says Eugene. You’re old news.

I leave Eugene and the Other Demons to their own devices. Chip picks an argument with Eugene, and Kitty tries to scare the twins with her disaster tales. I go back to saving the world from the safety of a comfortable chair with the potent power of my imagination.

MIMI AND I LAY awake in that San Francisco hotel room the entire night. “So, what do you know about Canada?”

“Rose Marie.”

“Rose Marie?”

“It was a film,” I told Mimi. “My mother took my brother and me to see it.”

The film was awful, but I remember being impressed with the Canadian landscape. Especially the untamed rivers. I could imagine wolves haunting the banks, cougars stalking the treeline above the white water, grizzly bears crouching in the shadow of a cascade.

Mimi was amused. “That’s it? A movie?”

We didn’t have anything in Roseville to match the wild rivers in the film. We had Dry Creek, a brown, sluggish ditch of a water-course that staggered along through valley oak and scrub, home to a scruffy gang of muskrats and a lazy flotilla of overweight carp.

In Rose Marie, Canada looked clean and fresh. I didn’t see any of the actors sweat or slap at a single mosquito.

“Actually, it was a musical. Set in Canada. Mountains, forests, Mounties.”

“Singing Mounties?”

“Mounties don’t sing in Canada?”

Mimi began laughing. She was still laughing when the sun came up.

MIMI WAKES ME at six the next morning. I’m still in the chair and, once again, my neck is stiff, and the world is no better for all my efforts.

“Do you have your diabetic supplies?”

“Yes.”

“Needles, insulin, test strips?”

“Yes.”

“Money, camera, dark glasses, hat?”

I hold up the items in turn, so Mimi can check each one off her list.

“You’re going to love Budapest.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Remember when you didn’t want to go to Athens,” she says. “Remember how well that turned out?”

The train station is crowded; streams of commuters flow off in all directions. Mimi pauses on the bank for a moment and then plunges into the currents and steams straight ahead to the ticket window. I hang back, hoping that the train to Budapest is full or that the woman at the wicket doesn’t speak any English.