Back in February, I spent two weeks touring around the Filipino island of Palawan and can easily boast that it offered the best snorkeling experience I've yet enjoyed. The people of Palawan are humble but gracious hosts and seemingly some of the happiest folks around.

The island certainly offers plenty of charm within its capital of Puerto Princesa City and beyond, if visitors are able to look past its poverty. I spent the first five days in PPC, staying at Green Park Tourist Inn. The major city on the island, it is in truth no more than a small town patched together in the middle of a tropical jungle, but it has plenty on offer. I enjoyed especially tasty food at Artisans, White Fence Cafe, Olio e Basilico Ristorante, Ima's Vegetarian Restaurant, and others. I also snorkeled in Honda Bay, napped on a beach, took a boat tour of an impressive cave, did some shopping, and treated myself to a 90-minute massage that cost less than $10! This first video, called "Palawan Paradise: Spring Break Adventure in the Philippines 2018," highlights some of these experiences as well as those I enjoyed in my next destination of El Nido:

The best part about my time in El Nido was certainly the snorkeling, but the town also offered some good dining, shops, and plenty of pristine beaches on which I took long walks. My favourite places in town included Artcafe, Happiness Beach Bar, Taverna Agape, Odessa Mama, Midtown Bakery, among others. The food served on the snorkeling excursion was also quite good, I discovered, but I think part of this had to do with the fact that I booked mine through Artcafe's in-house tour company. They made sure a special vegetarian meal was prepared for me, and it was fantastic! Tour C, which is the best option for snorkeling aficionados, took our small group to three different reefs. Destinations included Matinloc and Tapuitan Islands, a stop at the famous Secret Beach, as well as Hidden Beach and Helicopter Island. Waters were crystal clear and reefs were teeming with fish. This next video, called "Fish & Fins: Exploring El Nido's Reefs," gives you a taste of the joy I experienced during that tour:

My Palawan adventure ended with a few days in the secluded coastal village of Port Barton. I rented one of Evergreen Bayview's bungalows, which rest high on a hillside at the edge of the village. Sunsets from atop this perch were incredible since it looks out over the whole bay. Port Barton still doesn't see many tourists, so the beaches are quiet and clean. But be sure to pack a flashlight since the village still experiences power outages every day. If you're willing to rough it a bit, this is certainly a place worth visiting.

PANSY. The word has always churned my stomach.

          A weak, effeminate, and cowardly man or boy.
          A contemptuous term used to refer to a male homosexual.

How could such revolting slang grow out of the name given to a vibrant flower?

Granted, these offensive definitions have only been around for a few generations, I've learned. The word once held a deeper meaning. It's connected to the French word for thought, while older Latin roots lie in the verb meaning to consider or to weigh. These etymological connections are why the pansy flower is a symbol of remembrance.

So why is it that, when I hear the word, the first thought that comes to mind is how it's been used to hurt others? Could the flower itself share characteristics with the connotations now associated with it? I decided to investigate.

In Plaza de San Diego in the Spanish town of Alcalá de Henares, I discovered a public garden filled with pansies of all colours – blue, white, yellow – planted in rows. They first caught my attention two months ago. While surrounding plant life appeared barren or still lay dormant, waiting for winter's chill to wane, the pansies were flourishing, filling the courtyard with much-needed cheerful hues. A far cry from being weak, these flowers were standing strong against the icy breeze and cloudy skies. As I approached one of the flowerbeds and knelt down to examine the pansies more closely, I noticed that one grouping of blue pansies with vivid yellow eyes were staring up at me, their petals adorned with beads of crystalline water from the recent rains. Something else about the pansies caught my attention. Perhaps it was just my imagination; I couldn't help but think that, despite the damp and dreary weather, these pansies were smiling.

I continued to visit that patch of pansies over the coming weeks in search of further enlightenment. As I gazed into their eyes, the sight of the surrounding blue petals caused my mind to jump to a memory. I recalled the image of a drag queen's eyeshadow, worn during a performance I saw back in Canada. That man's makeup job could easily rival that of Mimi in "The Drew Carey Show," and his costume was more daringly provocative than anything I'd have the guts to wear. Yet there he was, appearing in public and performing on a stage for all to see. Hardly the act of a coward. Just like the garden pansies: they had not shrivelled under the harsh light nor weakened as aqua de vida evaporated.

These flowers even had the fortitude to withstand abuse. During another visit, I discovered a careless person had flicked a cigarette butt into the flowerbed my pansies called home, without putting a thought to the long-term harm its toxins may inflict. As I came to my friends' aid and collected that piece of trash for proper disposal, a flashback hit me. I remembered the first time I heard the word used as a way to spew verbal bile at someone. Pat was the only openly gay boy at my high school. "Pat the Fag, Pat the Pansy," they used to shout at him in the hall. This was the root of my contempt for pansy's unfortunate linguistic implications. Pat and I had become friends so, naturally, I had defended him. Then one day after class, he asked me to stop. He didn't want to see me become a target. The bullies' words didn't hurt him. He'd withstood far worse in his hometown near Montreal. Now, in the plaza with my pansies, I was moved by their silent strength despite having had a filthy fag flung in their faces.

PANSY. A weak, cowardly flower unable to survive in harsh conditions?

Hardly the case, as I've discovered. Pansies are hardy and adaptive creatures. They can grow rapidly, even in tough times. Closed-minded gardeners may see pansies as weeds or pests. But I perceive a base that's as resilient as wood and have grown to appreciate their leaves' soft underbelly. My pansies boast a sprawling yet close-knit family, and they appear to be a neighbourly bunch, happily sharing soil with several other plants of no relation to them. Here, my flower friends are an integral part of a harmonious community.

Pansies have taught me to discard those cruel meanings I once associated with their name and to embrace only the definition befitting their nature – strong, courageous, thoughtful, and admirable. One day soon, those hateful slang definitions will be struck from memory, lost to the dictionaries of history, and the new pansy will sprout unencumbered under virtuous, loving light.

Perched on a volcanic rock, neck cranked toward the sky
In wonder, I stare at those steps, raised to the heavens.
My pace set by lapping waves, a whirling wind fills me
With fresh, salty fuel as I begin the arduous climb.
Sweat from my lip won't slake mounting thirst under this glare
As the ascent grows steeper and clifftop abodes draw near.
Breathlessness compels a pause, and yet I still refuse
To join a passing mule train and its filthy chauffeur.
καλημέρα! he beckons through his yellow-toothed grin.
I press on in my trek up, pursuing the oasis,
To look upon a place more peaceful than any other –
Shimmering boats, sapphire waters, and a cloudless sky.
With shaking knees and lungs aflame, I reach the top
And seek out an icy Mythos to enjoy in the shade.

Sergeant Brockheart parked the cruiser in front of the dilapidated farmhouse and turned to her partner. "Ready?" He nodded. "This lead is a long shot," she added, "but we may find something here that helps us finally catch Robbson. Let's do this."

Brockheart and Choi approached the door. "DeSoto County Sheriff's Department," she shouted as she banged on it. "We have a search warrant." No one answered. They drew their weapons, and Choi kicked in the door. Advancing together, they cleared the front room and moved through the dining room, which was filled with computer equipment. Next, they checked the filthy kitchen, and Brockheart signalled for Choi to head upstairs and clear that level.

Meanwhile, Brockheart returned to the computer station. After a few clicks, she found a film-editing program with a project in progress. She watched the video for only a few seconds but was horrified by what she saw. As soon as she stopped it, she heard what sounded like something striking metal. Frozen in place, she listened. There it was again. The sound was faint, but she could tell it was coming from beneath her. Glancing around, she spotted an old rug on the floor. Once she kicked it aside, she realized it had concealed a trap door.

Brockheart pulled out her flashlight, opened the trap door and descended into the cellar. The wooden steps creaked under her weight, and the smell of damp concrete filled the air. Brockheart shone her light around the room and noticed the walls were lined with blades and tools, with crates and cages stacked against one side.

Suddenly, her light landed on a figure in the corner. A man leapt toward her, swinging a crowbar at her arms with such force that it knocked her gun and flashlight out of her hands. She heard them slide away as the man tackled her to the floor. She managed to elbow him in the nose, but the injury didn’t slow him down. Brockheart panicked as his hands wrapped around her neck. She flailed about as he leaned forward and tightened his grip. That's when she finally saw him. It was Robbson. Struggling for air, she watched an evil grin spread across his face.

BANG! Brockheart was stunned when she saw Robbson's neck rip open as a bullet rocketed through it. Robbson's body went limp and collapsed on top of Brockheart. As she shoved him aside, she spotted Choi rushing down the steps.

"Nice shot, partner," gasped Brockheart.

"That wasn't me."

Puzzled, Brockheart retrieved her flashlight and pointed it toward the stacks. There, locked inside a cage, was a battered teenaged girl. She had reached through the cage and grabbed Brockheart's gun. Now, as she set it down, her hand shook and tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Thank you," Brockheart said softly as she knelt in front of the girl. "Let's get you out of there."

In August, after I finished my teaching contract in Morocco, I spent a few days in Scotland on my way back to Canada to visit family. My short stay started with an evening in Edinburgh that led to a reunion with an old friend. I'd met Alex Wayt when I was touring Scotland in 2009, so I was thrilled to learn that his band The Lockhearts was performing at Whistle Binkies Live Music Bar that night. Those guys put on a great show, so it was a fantastic way to start a month of vacation time! The next day, I headed to Paisley and stayed at my friend Kenny Turner's B&B, the Dryesdale Airport Guesthouse. I also got the chance to spend some time with my cousin Meredith, who was finishing her Master's degree in Glasgow at the time.

Since this was my second visit to Scotland, I chose to explore a part of the country I hadn't seen when I was last there. However, deciding to do the stopover was a last-minute decision, so I relied on a local tour company to make my adventure possible. The result was a truly wonderful day in Scotland's Western Highlands. Here's the video I made of the day trip with Discover Scotland Tours: