We didn’t set out to become a travelling circus. We didn’t adopt a mascot. And yet, somewhere around Day 12 of “Where are we sleeping tonight?”, we realised we had company.

A tub of Costco olives.

​You know the kind: heroic quantity. Enormous optimism. The sort of container that quietly implies you may be hosting a small wedding. We bought them with good intentions. Something like, “Look at us, being healthy and Mediterranean.” Forty days later, those olives have crossed more thresholds than most passports. They’ve been in seven different homes or hotels. At this point, they’re not a snack. They’re a companion.

The West Coast has its own rhythm. Rain arrives like a familiar relative, sunshine appears like a surprise apology, and ocean walks reset our human nervous system in under ten minutes. Alison and I have been moving through Vancouver and Vancouver Island like two slightly soggy pilgrims, guided by tides, ferry schedules, and the magnetic pull of good coffee. We’ve walked beaches in bright, wild light. We’ve walked them again under skies that looked like someone spilled grey paint across the whole horizon. Through it all: the olives.

They’ve sat beside us at kitchen tables that weren’t ours, like they paid rent. They’ve attended more “first mornings” than we can count - the ritual of finding the mugs, locating the tea, introducing ourselves to the appliances. They’ve survived being packed with the tenderness usually reserved for heirloom china: “Careful, don’t crush the olives.” Imagine being that important.

​And then there were the pets.

Over 2025, we cared for 35 animals across our sits. Dogs with dramatic opinions about squirrels, cats who demanded emotional alimony, and the occasional creature who stared into our souls as if to ask, “Are you the new staff?” These animals didn’t just share space; they shaped the days. Morning walks. Evening cuddles. The small, sacred choreography of looking after somebody else’s beloved being.

Somewhere in those routines, the olives became absurdly symbolic.

Because while we travelled to over 70 places in 2025 - new keys, new neighbourhoods, new beds - we also kept returning to the same things: ocean air, honest work, laughter, and a sense of home that isn’t a building… it’s a practice. Also: olives.

Now the tub is nearly empty. We’re down to the last brave handful, glossy and staunch. We should give them a commemorative plaque.

To the travelling olives: thank you for your stamina, your salt, your unreasonable shelf-life, and your silent reminder that sometimes the most dependable thing in a roaming life is a Costco purchase with commitment issues. Next trip, should we buy two tubs?