Patron Saint: Martha Gellhorn.
Advises against: Lining up -- for anything -- in Lagos (she was trampled to a bloody pulp). Trying to be a vegetarian in Afghanistan (she got scurvy). Overstaying a visa in Iran (she got groped by a leering mullah after a harrowing day in “illegal aliens” court.) Flying West Air out of Khartoum (goats in the lavatories, appliance boxes in the aisle and a flight attendant who eschews a safety demonstration in favour of a lengthy prayer over the intercom.)
Best piece of gear: Her tailor-made French flak jacket has suede epaulets. (Who but the French?)
Can’t: Do long division. Cope without Earl Grey Tea. Sing.
Was a rabble-rousing student activist: At the University of King’s College in Halifax.
Was an anxiety-ridden graduate student whose brain almost exploded: At the London School of Economics.
Weighs her luggage down with: Books. A lot of books. Once trapped in southern Sudan for weeks when flooding kept her plane from landing, she had only a copy of a lousy Tom Wolfe novel, and a Bible donated by a compassionate missionary to keep her sane. She read them both, cover to cover, a half-dozen times, and she vows never to go hungry again.
Can flirt in a bar: In seven languages.
Secretly: Plays the country radio station in the car. Likes the batter as much as the cookies. Craves a second career as a backup dancer in Bollywood videos.
Recommends: Beirut. Freetown. Santiago de Chile. Montreal, even in winter.
Gets bloodthirsty over: Scrabble.
Happiest: In a canoe in northern Ontario.
Recently discovered: Youngberries. Galileo’s Daughter. Thai massage, done by actual Thai people.
