OPINION: Confessions of a Nomad with a GPS Problem

Flying 7260m above Saskatchewan on the way from Fredericton

I’ve always fancied myself a bit of a nomad. Not the windswept, desert-dwelling, camel-riding kind. More like the kind who thrives on new experiences, unfamiliar places, and the occasional travel mishap that turns into a great story over dinner. I wander with purpose, with curiosity, and—if we’re being honest here—without always reading the fine print. That, it turns out, can make things... interesting.

This week, my nomadic spirit is taking me to the Atlantic Mayors' Congress in Saint John, New Brunswick. And yes, I double—no, triple—checked my travel documents to make sure I wasn’t confusing it with St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador, like I did last year. A minor mistake, really. Happens to the best of us. Unless, of course, you are the best of us, in which case, it probably doesn’t.

Last year, I booked myself on a flight to “St. John’s,” proudly strutted through the airport like a man on a mission, only to step off the plane and realize I had landed in the wrong St. John. The Atlantic region doesn’t make it easy—Saint John in New Brunswick drops the apostrophe and “s,” while St. John’s in Newfoundland and Labrador keeps both. I was aiming for a foggy, musical fishing port surrounded by cliffs, and ended up in a Loyalist city by the Bay of Fundy.

Yes, I’m that guy.

I’m the guy who confuses cities with similar names and somehow always finds his way into the wrong one. I’m also the guy who thinks he’s booking a honeymoon to Paris, France but—left to his own devices—would have accidentally set the GPS to Paris, Ontario. Luckily, my husband books most of our trips. He knows me well enough not to let me near the “confirm booking” button.

Still, travel is part of who I am. I love meeting people, seeing how different communities tick, learning about local issues, accents, food, and traditions. It’s what feeds my curiosity and, in turn, how I serve my own community better. But every now and then, this wandering lifestyle throws me a curveball.

I was excited for this trip. After the whole “wrong Saint John” debacle, this time I was going to get it right. I had my itinerary mapped out: fly from Calgary to Fredericton, rent a car, and drive the two hours south to Saint John in time to settle in before the meetings began. What could possibly go wrong?

Apparently, quite a bit.

The first warning sign came from my husband, who casually asked if I’d double-checked my bookings. Now, I love this man deeply, and I also respect that he knows me better than I sometimes know myself. So I did what any responsible, self-aware travel klutz would do—I went back to check.

Good thing I did.

Turns out, the rental car I had so cleverly booked wasn’t actually available at Fredericton Airport. The rental agency didn’t operate a booth there. Not a major issue, I thought. I’ll just Uber to the location.

Except… there were no Ubers. None. Nada. Not even one lonely Prius lurking at the edge of the city.

With visions of hitchhiking my way to a rental counter, I started panicking. A quick search found one cab company that would make the trip. Crisis (sort of) averted.

Then I noticed the car rental office closed at 5:00 p.m. sharp. My flight? Scheduled to land at 5:15. I called, pleaded, negotiated—no dice. The staff at the rental counter were lovely, but they had rules. And those rules didn’t bend for late flights, no matter how charmingly Canadian I tried to be.

Suddenly, my well-laid travel plan had fallen apart. I’d arrive in Fredericton with no transportation, stuck in limbo for 24 hours before I could pick up a car. That’s a long time to be stuck in an unfamiliar city when you’ve got meetings on the other side of the province.

On Monday morning, with a pit in my stomach, I decided to do something wild. Something completely uncharacteristic in our age of apps, chatbots, and "please hold" music: I picked up the phone and started calling rental car agencies.

I dialed Budget. They had a car—barely. A compact, for nearly $900. I’m not exactly “compact” myself, and I imagined the poor seat trying to hold me and my dignity for five straight days. Next.

Enterprise had a luxury car available, for over a thousand bucks. Lovely, sure—but not worth emptying the emergency sock fund.

My last-ditch call was to AVIS, whose website insisted they had nothing available. But desperation breeds resourcefulness. And guess what? They had a mid-size car. Clean. Comfortable. Five days. $565, plus tax.

I nearly wept.

Here’s the kicker: they told me they don’t list all their inventory online. They reserve some cars for those who actually pick up the phone. It’s a kind of quiet reward for human interaction—a practice that feels almost revolutionary in 2025.

Not only did they have a car, but they could have it ready for me at the Fredericton Airport at 5:30. Just 15 minutes after landing. Take that, algorithm.

With the car secured, my plans were back on track. I could breathe again, confident that I wasn’t going to be marooned in the New Brunswick wilderness, wandering down the Trans-Canada Highway like a badly dressed Jack Kerouac.

I’m often asked why I put myself through this. The delayed flights. The wrong bookings. The wayward luggage and missed connections. For me, it’s simple: every place has something to teach. And every travel mishap is a lesson in humility, patience, and adaptability.

There’s also something deeply human about navigating the unexpected. It reminds us how reliant we are on others—on cab drivers who show up in the nick of time, on friendly rental agents, on loved ones who double-check our bookings even when we insist we’ve got it all under control.

Travel, even the chaotic kind, connects us. It breaks routines, forces us to see through new eyes, and often, brings us closer to people we otherwise wouldn’t meet.

As I write this, I’m 7,620 meters above Saskatchewan, reflecting on what it means to be in motion. Some of us feel most alive when we’re rooted. Others, like me, find energy in movement—in the whirr of jet engines, the rumble of rental cars, the blur of unfamiliar landscapes through a windshield.

This trip to New Brunswick will be my first real opportunity to explore Saint John properly. Last time, I arrived by accident. This time, it’s intentional. I want to walk the uptown streets, feel the maritime breeze off the harbour, and understand what issues this community faces—because no matter how many mayors gather in one room, each of our cities is different, and those differences matter.

And yes, I double-checked. I’m definitely flying to New Brunswick, not Newfoundland and Labrador. But if I do find myself landing in St. John’s by some cosmic accident, I may just have to accept that Atlantic Canada and I have a complicated relationship.

After all, maybe it’s not about getting everything right. Maybe it’s about rolling with it, laughing at yourself, and having one hell of a story to tell when you finally get where you were going.

Or even when you don’t.