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The Sunday afternoons of my childhood were spent puking into plastic bags in backseat of a station wagon. Picture something quite similar to a scene right out one of the Family Vacation movies. But with puking. Lots and lots of puke. So. Much. … Okay, I think you get the picture. Did I mention how much fun it was? Sing-a-longs, bags of cheese curds, pulling over every 30 kilometres to take in the sights, sounds and smells. Hiking up Whiteface Mountain, crossing the border to watch large ocean liners trudge through the nearby locks at sunset or searching for frogs and snakes at good old Loch Garry. No adventure was ever too big or small for my parents. For they knew (or it just struck me that perhaps they absolutely never even considered it) they were igniting this insatiable desire for adventure in all of their three children. The same…