To paraphrase Ween: “Take me away to some other land...I gotta get away from this cold before it drives me crazy…”

Just as many season-pushing Torontonians, myself included, began pronouncing winter to be over and done with, Environment Canada goes ahead and issues a “Special Weather Statement” for Hogtown. Serves us right, I suppose, given that it’s minus-19 in Regina right now.  

So let me make up for my annoying optimism by suggesting scores of places to get away from this and any other snowy blast (as well as plenty of spots where a snowy blast is a good thing).

WAIHEKE ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND
Just 35 minutes from Auckland by ferry, this compact island boasts an impressive array of sunny diversions. Emerald waters and sandy beaches blend beautifully with dozens of boutique wineries, fine restaurants, art galleries and craft studios, while walking trails wind through nature reserves and ziplines soar above it all.

CHECK OUT THE REST OF MY “20 UNDER-THE-RADAR PLACES TO CATCH SOME SUN” MSN GALLERY 

PROVIDENCIALES, TURKS AND CAICOS
This Caribbean archipelago’s most-visited island is home to Grace Bay, which is widely regarded as one of the world’s best beaches. There’s also a host of luxurious beachfront resorts, dozens of upscale restaurants and spas, and some of the region’s best snorkeling, scuba diving and deep-sea fishing.

CHECK OUT THE REST OF “50 BEST DESTINATIONS TO VISIT DURING THE WINTER”

ISLAMORADA, FLORIDA
This is a gorgeous 30-km stretch of keys named Plantation, Upper and Lower Matecumbe, Shell and Lignumvitae. It’s where mangrove gives way to beautiful ocean, and where much of the Bloodline TV series was shot. Indeed, the Moorings Village and Spa, a luxurious 7.3-hectare property, stood in as the Rayburns’ hotel.

CHECK OUT THE REST OF "20 HOT SPOTS IN FLORIDA TO ESCAPE WINTER”

​NOSARA, COSTA RICA
​Surf shops and yoga studios were imported to this pretty Guanacaste town by its large expat community, but the luxuriant vegetation and plentiful wildlife of the nearby refuge, as well as the three lovely beaches, all come courtesy of Mother Nature.

CHECK OUT THE REST OF "YES, YOU CAN TRAVEL TO THESE GORGEOUS BEACHES"

Who knew a slideshow could be so therapeutic? Last night's display on our living room TV helped ease my family's jet lag, as well as the shock of returning to snowy Toronto, with giddy reminiscences of our four weeks in New Zealand.

It also took me back to the slideshows of my childhood. My dad would deploy one of those tripod-mounted projection screens and, if I was lucky, I'd get to use the handheld "clicker" to advance the projector's carousel. Because they were near-weekly events, we saw the same photos over and over again, and we'd often spot details that were overlooked the first 17 times around: A picnic shot revealing a surreptitious cookie grab, a near-perfect family portrait in which yours truly was flying low.

These days,  new observations are even easier to make as we rename, sort, crop and share images. Indeed, upon further review of our time in the Land of the Long White Cloud...

...sometimes a stalagmite is just a stalagmite. (In the otherworldly Ngarua Caves south of Abel Tasman National Park.)

...all I need is some rope, a sturdy maple branch, and that meltwater-filled pothole in front of our house. (Just off the bucolic Rakaitane Track along the Arnold River near the lovely village of Moana.)

...isn't it amazing what you can do with Velcro? (En route to the Franz Josef Glacier in Westland Tai Poutini National Park.)

...I still don't know what the shepherd is doing here. Trying to sneak up on baby Jesus? Some kind of "Thriller" dance move? (Christmas Eve on the gorgeously deserted Anapai Bay Beach in Abel Tasman National Park.)

...if not for the signage I would have held an eel to my face as I would a newborn kitten. (At the wonderful Jester House Cafe near Nelson.)

...what a nice shot of my family on a bridge spanning Taupo's Huka Falls. The water is this incredible iridescent blue colour and...hold on a sec...what is that random guy doing?!? 

Phew, it's a perspective thing. I'm pretty sure he is neither groping nor pick-pocketing my wife. 

Sung with plenty o' twang to the tune of "The Ballad of Jed Clampett," the theme song for The Beverly Hillbillies TV show (1963-71) and 1993 film (I still want my Blockbuster Video rental fee back).

Come and listen to my story 'bout my wife named Ang,
A poor buccaneer, greatest momma in the land,
A few weeks ago we were driving 'round NZ*,
With Ang and her phone in the shotgun seat.

Spoken: An iPhone 6 that is. Black and gold, it was free (when she signed a two-year contract with a company that is partly owned by...Satan?!?).

*Sorry, that's "zee," British (and many Canadian) friends.

*****

Related anecdote: As we were driving into Christchurch (on the left-hand side of the road), I failed to signal an abrupt lane change after inadvertently activating my windshield wipers for the 314th time.

The driver behind me had just honked his horn -- fair enough -- when a sketchy-looking woman stepped off the sidewalk in front of us and darted into our lane. She gestured at me to roll down my window, which at home in Toronto I would never do. This being New Zealand, however, I figured she wanted to offer some helpful tips on the proper use of windshield wipers.

Instead, she jabbed her index finger at me and barked: “Why did you toot at me?!?”

“I didn’t, er, toot at you,” I replied, taken aback. Behind me, my daughters giggled at the use of “toot.”

“You’re an American liar!” the woman declared loudly.

I wish I had corrected her on both counts, but all I could muster was a swift denial. “It wasn’t me, it was the guy behind me!”

“Frucking...framerican...friars,” she mumbled, and spun on her heel to face the poor tooter.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled earworm.

*****

Well the first thing you know Ang is snapping from her seat
The kinfolk said, "iCloud storage isn't free..."
Angela replied, "Keep it zipped and watch the road,
“We just hit the Instagram motherlode...”

Attn: Alex Behring and the rest of the Restaurant Brands International executive team.

First, let me congratulate you on the enormous, if somewhat unwarranted, popularity of your coffee-and-doughnuts chain. I very much enjoy your sour cream-glazed pastries, especially when nuked for about 30 seconds and paired with anything but your coffee.

That said, after visiting several of New Zealand’s ubiquitous roadside cafes, I feel many of the products and services available at these independent establishments could be implemented across the Tim Hortons chain to great effect. With that in mind, here are six New Year's resolutions I suggest for your brand:

1. Offer eel feeding: I know you’re always looking to create memorable customer experiences, and I now know that nothing is more memorable than feeding tame eels from the verdant banks of a shimmering brook. Of course, not every Tim Hortons location is as picturesque and pastoral as that of the Jester House Cafe near Nelson, NZ, but surely some kind of aquarium set-up could do the trick? Plus, I’m pretty sure the Jester’s $2-a-cup eel food is identical to your chicken salad.
2. Go gluten-free: Incredibly, not a single one of your myriad baked items is gluten-free. Walk into any NZ cafe, and several GF options are usually available, clearly labeled, and delicious to boot. Try the caramel squares and thank me later. 
3. More for the kids: Do children enjoy Timbits and hot chocolate? Did Mr. Horton like to drop the gloves? Yet, you make little or no effort to entertain the little ones. At the Jester, on the other hand, there’s a veritable enchanted forest of whimsical play structures, wooden musical instruments, and even a “borrow-a-tail” dress-up station. Any one of these features would be hugely appreciated by parents and kids alike, while the latter would appeal to the Harajuku crowd you are always trying to entice.
4. Serve drinky-drinks: All the NZ cafes I’ve visited offer a pleasing variety of local microbrews and wines. ‘Nuff said.
5. Bring me my food: I’m not suggesting you hire servers. Rather, instead of taking my order and tempting me to watch the unnerving preparation of my chicken salad sandwich, why not do as Kiwi cafes do and simply hand me a number on a stick so I can wait at my table? Fewer angry mobs at the pickup counter, fewer bleary-eyed customers spilling their heavily-laden trays, it’s all good.
6. Offer overnight accommodations: You know that guy who spends 14 hours a day in your Kinmount location? Why not give him the option to spend the night? Now, I doubt the Jester’s fairytale-boot lodgings would appeal to every Timmy’s customer, but maybe a hockey puck- or Timbit-shaped room would suffice? Combine this with some gluten-free treats, a gigantic wooden snail, a few local microbrews and a modest school of hungry eels, and you simply can’t lose. 

Once these resolutions are adopted, I will require two types of compensation for my consulting services: A lifetime supply of the Licorice Cafe's caramel squares; and a written guarantee that Tim Hortons will never, ever, expand to New Zealand.

The morning of our departure, a friend asks my wife if she's excited about our trip to New Zealand. “It’s not so much excitement,” Angela replies, “as it is disbelief.”

It's true: After six months of planning, it seems impossible that the big day is finally here.

Such is the emotional irregularity of trip anticipation: We expect excitement, but we get incredulity. Inspiration soon gives way to insecurity, and elation morphs into depression at the drop of an airfare. The stages of this buildup are different for everyone, I’m sure, but here’s what transpired for me this time around:    

STAGE 1: INSPIRATION
New Zealand? Where do I sign!?! Our friends are moving there for a year -- to Motueka no less, which is sandwiched between a national park and wine country -- they’ve invited us to stay with them, we all love wine, we all love sandwiches, their kids are BFFs with our kids, we’ve always wanted to visit NZ, we’re due for a big family adventure, we all love wine, it could not be more perfect.

STAGE 2: BARGAINING
OK, if we travel over the holidays the kids will only miss a few days of school. They spend most of December crafting awkwardly non-denominational ornaments anyway. Luckily, you’ve got a bunch of paid vacation time, and my Oscar-winning screenplay will be complete any day now. And do we really need a functioning furnace this winter?

STAGE 3: OVERCONFIDENCE
‘Twas I who navigated the medina of Fez without a guide (and only got lost two-score and nine times). ‘Twas I who had the ski school pick up our kids from the chalet. ‘Tis I who has but thrice laundered his passport. A New Zealand quest? ‘Tis child’s play, I tell you!

STAGE 4: ANGER
Me: So let me get this straight: All 27 times I selected your super-discount airfare, someone else grabbed the seats while I was filling out the seven pages of passenger and credit-card info. And it just so happened that the next-best fare was two grand more than the one I wanted. Do you honestly think I’m going to go for the new fare? Who does that? Doesn’t this sound like a scam to you?

Them: Well sir, it’s a busy travel time for travel to Mexico, and…

Me: Mexico? We’re going to New Zealand!

Them: Ah yes, sorry sir, New Zealand. Excellent choice. As I was saying, it’s a busy time for travel to New Zealand, and…

Me: No, wait, I’ve changed my mind. What do you have for Molvania?

Them: Ah yes, Molvania. Excellent choice. It’s a busy time for travel to Molvania, and…

Click!

STAGE 5: ACCEPTANCE
I will let the rigours of travel planning wash over me like the oceans of guacamole in my soon-to-be-Oscar-winning screenplay. I know that sometimes those guacamolean seas will be chunky, as they are on the way to New Zealand when a customs official asks, “Are you carrying any fresh fruits or vegetables?”

“No.”

“Nuts?”

“No.”

“Meats?”

“No.”

“Honey?”

“No…”

“Hold up there good sir!” our 10-year-old exclaims. “Let’s back things up for a sec. Mother and Father, I distinctly recall you stowing several large jars of honey in your luggage. I believe it was the cheap non-organic stuff. Anyway, officer, I just want to make sure you have all the correct information at your disposal.”

There is an incredibly awkward silence. The customs official stares at us blankly. We stare back. Somewhere, off in the distance, a dog barks. Which is odd, considering we are in an airport. Then again, it’s probably one of those sniffer dogs searching for concealed honey.

Trouble is, we can’t truthfully correct our full-disclosure-obsessed child for fear that the maple syrup in our luggage will be confiscated. Maybe maple syrup is right after honey on the customs checklist!

That’s when I jump in: “No no sweetie, that wasn’t honey. It was my all-natural ball wax.”

The awkwardness relieved, we go on our merry way.

STAGE 6: EXCITEMENT
I often find that people say “you must be getting excited about your trip” long before you genuinely feel that way. For me, the excitement starts the moment I miss my last deadline.

STAGE 7: DISBELIEF
I think this is why so many people walk around airport departure levels in zombie-like states. It makes sense in arrivals, jet lag and all, but in departures it is the only reasonable explanation for the exorbitant price of duty-free bocce ball wax.

Full disclosure: I'm trying to like Instagram. I have an account I use now and then, but as a travel writer I can't help but feel it undermines my chosen field. A click is a click is a click, I suppose, but when you get paid by the word the power of digital photography becomes highly disconcerting. Then again, 375 million active users can't be wrong, and many of the posts I come across are pretty damn cool. That must be why Instagram is making me feel so optimistic about my family's upcoming trip to New Zealand.  

With exactly one week till take off, I just stumbled upon New Zealand Tourism's "Top 10 Instagram spots in 2017." ​

Which ones are already on OUR itinerary?

I’m almost looking forward to my family’s 22-hour flight from Toronto to Auckland. The 17-hour time difference? I can do that in my sleep (which I suppose is the point). Driving on the left along some of the world’s more-challenging roads? After Costa Rica, Sicily, Scotland and Roger’s Pass, a New Zealand road trip sounds like a breeze. (Knock on wood.)

With exactly two weeks to go until our departure, only three hours of the month-long trip give me pause: Those we will spend crossing the Cook Strait. The passage between New Zealand’s North and South islands is considered one of the world’s most dangerous, unpredictable and roughest stretches of water. That said, I have complete faith in our ferry: It weighs more than 14,000 tonnes, so the chances of it sinking, even with my wife’s and daughters’ luggage on board, are miniscule. (Knock on wood.)

More than anything else, I dread a repeat of our 2004 cruise to Italy’s famously volcanic island of Stromboli.

The Ionian Sea was angry that day my friends, but it took awhile for it to evoke an old man trying to send back soup in a deli. Our eight-hour tour started out sunny and mellow, like an elderly Deadhead selling “medicinal herbs” out of the back of a VW Van. Our 50-foot cabin cruiser, the Zephyr, was full to bursting as it motored out of Lipari Harbour toward the nearby island of Panarea, where we stopped briefly to potter around the Bougainvillea-draped village. At this point, the blue skies, light winds and calm waters gave no hint of the insanity to come.

A few minutes later, Stromboli -- aka the "Lighthouse of the Mediterranean" -- loomed into full view. The compact conical isle is home to one of Italy’s three active volcanoes, with minor eruptions often visible from its surroundings.

Or so we were told. As if on cue, thick clouds rolled in as soon as we docked at the village of San Vincenzo. A side-voyage to the lighthouse-topped islet of Strombolicchio would provide the best views of Stromboli’s three smoldering calderas, our guides said, but with the summit now completely obscured we could only stare morosely at the darkening skies from atop the boat’s cabin and note how suddenly the wind had gone from strong to cyclonic, how quickly the light chop had turned into eight-foot swells, how thoroughly soaked our linen pants were getting, how…

“Attenzione!” hollered a crewmember as he poked his head up the stairs. “Everyone, per favore, down below now!”

We didn’t have to be told twice. In a matter of seconds, all of the 80-odd passengers were huddled around patio tables in the Zephyr’s main cabin. The crew, meanwhile, was busy securing loose rigging, battening down hatches, and handing out plastic bags.

I’m not sure if “chain reaction” accurately describes what happened next, what with the Zephyr rocking side-to-side like a hammock in a hurricane. What I do know for sure, and what haunts me to this day, is that my wife was the first to puke.

When a person hurls, bystanders typically jump out of the way and cry out in dismay and disgust. But not on this nightmarish afternoon. Paralysed by nausea, I could only watch in horror as my fellow passengers followed Ang’s lead and succumbed to seasickness one by one. Within minutes, the crew was passing barf-bags hand-over-fist from the cabin to the stern, where they were tossed into the raging surf.

Her head in my lap -- and not in a good way -- Angela proceeded to coat my lower extremities with the remains of her lunch. Everywhere I looked, passengers were upchucking into bags, onto the floor, onto each other and onto themselves. It was a Boschian hellscape of vomit.

Inexplicably, my bride was the sole puker at our table. The rest of us, green-faced and wide-eyed, stared desperately at the darkening horizon, occasionally making eye contact and mouthing the words “please...kill me” to each other.

This went on for about an hour, but it felt like a Jovian century. Then, as suddenly as it started, the storm abated, the towering waves vanished, and the queasiness disappeared. We had finally made it back to Lipari Harbour!

Angela’s head popped up from under the table, her bedraggled mop reminiscent of Courtney Love’s on a horrendous hair day. “Well,” she quipped, “that was all very sophisticated.”

So you can understand my Cook Strait trepidation. Ang can’t be faulted for her seasickness on the Zephyr, but that incident seems to have started something. Since then, she has turned green on the Toronto Island Airport Ferry, which sails all of 100 metres, as well as on the decommissioned HMSC Haida warship that’s permanently docked in Hamilton Harbour. It sure doesn’t help that my eldest daughter seems to have inherited the instant-seasickness gene from her mom.

Thankfully, I have a plan: When I board the Straitsman in Wellington, there will be gobs of Gravol, and dozens of barf bags, in the vomit-proof pockets of my new Hazmat suit.