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A quasi-ancient naval fort, jutting into Portsmouth harbour, complete with calcified shower-heads, bird droppings on every windowsill, and a steady spritz of sea spray throughout. Fort Blockhouse is nothing more than a red brick barracks, an officer’s mess decorated with La Peinture of Queen Victoria’s Armadas and Admirals respectively, and a puddle riddled parade square. All of which is surrounded by a weathered concrete sea wall, which I found myself sitting upon on a July evening while an unusually clear sunset glazed over the Solent Strait. At 17 years old, I had never really been anywhere! I grew up in the Whiteshell Provincial Park in Manitoba, Canada. My parents owned a lodge and resort bordering Ontario, and due to all of the fishing, camping, and waterskiing that filled my childhood, as far as I was concerned I lived in the greatest place in the world. Still I worked incredibly hard to get somewhere in life, and in the summer before I left home for University, I was accepted to go on an international exchange trip to the U.K. as an ambassador for a Canadian youth program. I never came from a wealthy family, having shared a small plywood floored room with two sisters, and a native reservation rescue dog, I simply didn’t know what to expect. It was a two-week trip including meals, accommodations, and travel. Four days in London, four days in RAF Cranwell, and four final days in Portsmouth. Nearly every day consisted of some noteworthy adventure, however the last day was personally most worth sharing. To put it lightly, English Breakfast is dreadful. Traditionally, it consists of oily and bubbly fried eggs, fried sausages, fried bread, fried potatoes, fried black pudding, and an incredibly generous loading of sweet and saucy baked beans. British tradition is to choke down a hearty helping and swish out the crumbs from your rotted teeth with a cup of aptly named english breakfast tea, while catching up on what’s new at the Queen Vic Pub on EastEnders. I am neither a Git nor a Tosser, so that was how I started the morning of my last day in the United Kingdom. That said, and as delicious as it sounds, the traditional British diet is not suitable for me, and throughout the trip I suffered joyously with canker sores, acne, and a head cold that could never be cured. I laugh about it now, but I sincerely felt that I was succumbing to scurvy. Nevertheless, I was certain to enjoy the remainder of the trip, and after I left the officer’s mess at Fort Blockhouse, passing by the heavily patina’d faux jackstaff and dingy stone chapel, I met up with the rest of the group. Our day included a zodiac ride out to the cylindrical forts out past the harbour, which originally protected the harbour from invaders, but are now repurposed to be bed-and-breakfasts. After lunch, we toured a local Air Cadet branch, and played “footie” with their patrons. But my favourite part, was when the day finally wrapped up back at Fort Blockhouse, and we made the regal decision of ordering pizza. I was so very desperate to have some vegetables in my diet, that I didn’t care if they came covered in melted cheese and marinara sauce. When the glorious delivery pizzas finally arrived, I had taken a cold and salty shower, donned a dress shirt given to me from a boy from Montreal, shellacked my dirty blonde hair, and graciously borrowed cologne from a German student. I sincerely felt like a gentleman, and after playing snooker at the officer’s lounge, I went and sat by the sea wall. It felt so obscure to be a rural boy from Canada, sharing pizza with youth from Belgium, France, and Australia. Even stranger, to be sharing cigarettes with the pretty girls from Turkey, and lending my shoulder to an odd girl with pink hair. I carry a belief that at some point in our lives, we will find ourselves at the most important place in the world at that specific moment. And staring out at the water, waving at passing boats, and listening to the ocean’s rhythm, I found that belief was true.