Like most trips I've taken recently, I never really want to go at the beginning. But then I go and I have a great time. That's what this trip to Europe was like. I had been to Paris and London already, I didn't need to go again. But I went and had a great time anyway.
This time, the highlight was visiting south of France and meeting The Exchange's family. I've seen cypress trees in Van Gogh's paintings and I looked for wind-blown whirly trees that pierce the French sky. I saw none of course, but when I saw the cypress trees, I knew exactly what they were.
Nature in Canada is wild, savage and solitary. You abandon the confines of the city but think of bundling up and protecting yourself. I love it for tapping the untameable in me. Nature in France is pastoral, peaceful, with villages of stone houses here and there. You stumble upon it gently and think of what fresh fruits and vegetables and wine to get for your family's dinner. I love it for making me feel soft, civilized and connected to the human race.
In southern France, we walked through Uzes. There, narrow cobblestone streets wound through the town, without bright lights and garish signage, just like in a postcard, or the streets of Paris 30 years ago. I met my friend from India there for lunch. In the square where we sat, she pointed out the balcony where they filmed Cyrano de Bergerac with Gerard Depardieu. She was an extra in that film.
Back at The Exchange's father's (our host) home, we climbed a hill at night to visit the medieval village at the top. Many of the houses there looked clean, almost new. In fact, many houses in France have been restored so we didn't see crumbling, decrepit buildings. I was told there's a national movement to preserve houses and buildings in France, but in the south, the annual mistral also blows in and cleans the building surfaces.
We say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. That is also the way to my heart; the other way is through my head. Our Host entered using both paths. He cooked tremendously simple but delicious meals. For example, he put mussels directly on the grill, and when they open, he drizzled olive oil with chopped garlic and parsley into the shells. Marvelous.
Though a stern-looking man, Our Host possesses much knowledge about everything. He also has a wonderful sense of humour. I learned two important ideas from him.
1. When something reminds us of a childhood experience, that is "ma madeleine de Proust."
2. This simple fact of life: Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut. A woman's will is God's will. I will etch this in stone in our house.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Uh Oh
Holy cow! Zoom Airlines just declared bankruptcy and cancelled all future flights. Zoom is our airline. That means we don't have a flight to come home August 31. We are stranded in France.
But not for long. I just booked return flights with Air Canada.
In southern France right now visiting The Exchange's father. Hot hot hot. Blue skies. Great food. Beautiful house. The Exchange by my side. Maybe I could rip up that new return ticket.
But not for long. I just booked return flights with Air Canada.
In southern France right now visiting The Exchange's father. Hot hot hot. Blue skies. Great food. Beautiful house. The Exchange by my side. Maybe I could rip up that new return ticket.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Realization
I went to the Musee D'Orsay today. Loved it. Loved everything about it - from the building to how the art work is arranged to the art work itself to being there with The Man.
We went for a sandwich at a cafe beside the museum. Eating that sandwich, I remembered this: Years ago when I was in Paris, I often ate the ham sandwich that I ate this afternoon. Back then, I ate that because it was one of the few things I could afford to buy at a cafe. It always surprised me how good that ham and butter on baguette was. But I was in Paris then with someone I didn't like much. I remember wishing then I could be in Paris with someone else. Someone more like The Man.
So eating that sandwich today, I realized that's who I am in Paris with right now.
Which made me think a lot of my wishes actually come true. It's just that sometimes I have to be splat in the face with the moment before I realize what I have.
I hate this French keyboard at the cyber cafe.
We went for a sandwich at a cafe beside the museum. Eating that sandwich, I remembered this: Years ago when I was in Paris, I often ate the ham sandwich that I ate this afternoon. Back then, I ate that because it was one of the few things I could afford to buy at a cafe. It always surprised me how good that ham and butter on baguette was. But I was in Paris then with someone I didn't like much. I remember wishing then I could be in Paris with someone else. Someone more like The Man.
So eating that sandwich today, I realized that's who I am in Paris with right now.
Which made me think a lot of my wishes actually come true. It's just that sometimes I have to be splat in the face with the moment before I realize what I have.
I hate this French keyboard at the cyber cafe.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Farewell London
We are heading back into Paris this afternoon. I only have internet access there if I go into a cyber cafe, which are few near the apartment where we are staying. Some locals said that's because everyone has internet access at home and where we are, while it's near the Eiffel Tower, is not where the tourist hotels are.
I quite love London, but I don't know if I love it more than Paris. For one thing, most women in London are fat and slovenly dressed. Tarty, said The Man. Parisian women seem effortlessly put together. The boys say they prefer London. That's because they understand the language and the Underground system is less convoluted than in Paris, and there is a greater sense of order. London is the motherland of queues, doncha know.
Okay, time to go.
I quite love London, but I don't know if I love it more than Paris. For one thing, most women in London are fat and slovenly dressed. Tarty, said The Man. Parisian women seem effortlessly put together. The boys say they prefer London. That's because they understand the language and the Underground system is less convoluted than in Paris, and there is a greater sense of order. London is the motherland of queues, doncha know.
Okay, time to go.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Painting The Town Red
Today, we crossed the Thames River to visit the other side. Our hotel is steps from the river. To the right is Big Ben and West Minster Abbey, to the left is London Bridge. One of the things in between is the Tate Modern gallery. We went there for more abstract art.
Inside the Tate, I came across a film that introduced the viewer to Conceptual Art - art based on an idea or concept. For example, the toilet is usually an undesirable object associated with dirty human waste. But what if you cast a toilet using translucent bright colour so that the object seems light and worthy of being a religious icon? What if you take a common soup can, put it on a pedestal and glorified it? That's Andy Warhol.
In reaction to conceptual art, a group of artists created art based on no ideas. I can't remember what that movement is called. The artist interviewed said in a quiet drunken way something like...There is an equation in the creative process. You start with nothing, at zero. If you have an idea for your art, your equation is zero plus one. But if you remove the idea, you are at zero plus one minus one. That how I arrive back at zero. But in the process, something happened. That's your creation.
Aaargh.
What did this artist create? He stacked rows and rows of bricks on a floor. There is a whole room in the Tate Modern devoted to his work. Good thing admission to art galleries in London are free.
After, we walked to Shakespeare's open-air Globe theatre. The theatre is in fact not on the original site. There is another building on that site. But when space became available next to the original site, they built a replica of the theatre there. Their performance season was sold out as soon as they announced it so we weren't able to get tickets for a play during our stay in London. Still, you can imagine what it was like in Shakespeare's time for people to wander down to the river, pay a small fee, and watch a play.
At the London Bridge, everything is commercial. You can buy a "London Bridge Experience." I think it's a ride-like attraction. You can also buy a "Clink Experience". The Clink was England's first prison. That's why we refer to jails as the clink these days. The Clink Experience is a walk through the old jail, now a prison museum. I didn't want these experiences.
I did walk through Borough Market. Many meat and vegetable vendors that retain their 100+ year-old look and now sell high-end organic, free-trade products. Today was a bank holiday in England and the market was closed. I like walking through a busy place when it is closed. It gives me a sense of what the place is really like and where things are. I would have liked to come back when the market is open and thronged with people.
I met my friend Nye in the afternoon. It was so great to see her in London. We are like internationals friends and see each other only when we pass through each other's city. We walked through London's Chinatown. There are no cars in these Chinatown streets. Then we met her boyfriend and his friend from Manchester for dim sum. I felt like we were on a double date, it was so much fun.
After, they dropped me off in front of the St. Martin-In-The-Field church. I rode in their mini Cooper on the left side of the road. It was weird. I tried not to scream when they made a right turn into the middle of the intersection.
I met my gang at the church beside Trafalgar Square. We had tickets for a Mozart-Vivaldi-Pachebel-Telemann-Bach concert. There is nothing like listening to live music inside a church! At the St. Martin-In-The-Field at that. The chamber ensemble, the London Concertante, was fantastic. I loved how all the musicians played with flourish. They played their instruments with their face and body, they made eye contact with each other and were physically in tune with each to get their timing and tempo right. Even the boys, who prefer to be in the mosh pit at rock concerts, applauded enthusiastically and thought it was fantastic. They thanked me for bringing them to this concert.
Inside the Tate, I came across a film that introduced the viewer to Conceptual Art - art based on an idea or concept. For example, the toilet is usually an undesirable object associated with dirty human waste. But what if you cast a toilet using translucent bright colour so that the object seems light and worthy of being a religious icon? What if you take a common soup can, put it on a pedestal and glorified it? That's Andy Warhol.
In reaction to conceptual art, a group of artists created art based on no ideas. I can't remember what that movement is called. The artist interviewed said in a quiet drunken way something like...There is an equation in the creative process. You start with nothing, at zero. If you have an idea for your art, your equation is zero plus one. But if you remove the idea, you are at zero plus one minus one. That how I arrive back at zero. But in the process, something happened. That's your creation.
Aaargh.
What did this artist create? He stacked rows and rows of bricks on a floor. There is a whole room in the Tate Modern devoted to his work. Good thing admission to art galleries in London are free.
After, we walked to Shakespeare's open-air Globe theatre. The theatre is in fact not on the original site. There is another building on that site. But when space became available next to the original site, they built a replica of the theatre there. Their performance season was sold out as soon as they announced it so we weren't able to get tickets for a play during our stay in London. Still, you can imagine what it was like in Shakespeare's time for people to wander down to the river, pay a small fee, and watch a play.
At the London Bridge, everything is commercial. You can buy a "London Bridge Experience." I think it's a ride-like attraction. You can also buy a "Clink Experience". The Clink was England's first prison. That's why we refer to jails as the clink these days. The Clink Experience is a walk through the old jail, now a prison museum. I didn't want these experiences.
I did walk through Borough Market. Many meat and vegetable vendors that retain their 100+ year-old look and now sell high-end organic, free-trade products. Today was a bank holiday in England and the market was closed. I like walking through a busy place when it is closed. It gives me a sense of what the place is really like and where things are. I would have liked to come back when the market is open and thronged with people.
I met my friend Nye in the afternoon. It was so great to see her in London. We are like internationals friends and see each other only when we pass through each other's city. We walked through London's Chinatown. There are no cars in these Chinatown streets. Then we met her boyfriend and his friend from Manchester for dim sum. I felt like we were on a double date, it was so much fun.
After, they dropped me off in front of the St. Martin-In-The-Field church. I rode in their mini Cooper on the left side of the road. It was weird. I tried not to scream when they made a right turn into the middle of the intersection.
I met my gang at the church beside Trafalgar Square. We had tickets for a Mozart-Vivaldi-Pachebel-Telemann-Bach concert. There is nothing like listening to live music inside a church! At the St. Martin-In-The-Field at that. The chamber ensemble, the London Concertante, was fantastic. I loved how all the musicians played with flourish. They played their instruments with their face and body, they made eye contact with each other and were physically in tune with each to get their timing and tempo right. Even the boys, who prefer to be in the mosh pit at rock concerts, applauded enthusiastically and thought it was fantastic. They thanked me for bringing them to this concert.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Big Brother
Now I know why London is the home of George Orwell's Big Brother. There are cameras everywhere watching you. It reduces crime, The Man justified for them. People and signs tell you what to do, where to go, what's what, all the time.
For example, outside the hotel is a sort of park I think. I don't know for sure because the gates to it are locked. There is a sign on the gate that says, "Do Not Feed The Pigeons. It is Illegal." In smaller print on the sign is "Damage to this sign is an offence." So don't feed the birds and don't touch this sign. Really.
In the Metro, announcements go on and on and on, giving you directions, telling you where you are, advising where roadblocks and constructions are. These announcements are made in that sickly sweet, relaxed, robotic voice from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The voice intends to calm but if you submit to it, you lose your mind.
Even in washrooms they tell you what to do. I went into a public washroom where you have to pay. A man gestured me to put a coin here. Not just into this machine, but with his finger, he indicated exactly where the slot was, like I couldn't see it. He friend pointed at the coin return and said, "Get your change from here. Now walk through this turnstile."
When I was done, I wanted to wash my hands. I stood at a sink away from the cleaning woman. She said, "No, use this sink," pointing at the one closer to her. I walked away from her to use the dryer against the wall. She said, "Use this dryer," indicating the one beside her. I approached the exit turnstile. She shouted after me, "Push the green button to go out, push the green button to go out." Man, I wonder if she was peering into my toilet cubicle to make sure I was wiping myself properly. Later in the evening, when we passed by the washrooms again, we could hear the woman still shouting instructions to unwary users.
Today, The Man and I walked to Trafalgar Square. A giant TV monitor was broadcasting the Olympic closing ceremonies. The square was crowded and we watched the show for a while. Then we bought tickets to a Vivaldi, Mozart, Bach, and Pachebel concert inside the St. Martin-In-The-Fields church for tomorrow night! I loved that we stumbled onto this.
Inside the National Gallery, I stood in a symmetrical hallway that looked out to Trafalgar Square. The giant TV monitor in the square was positioned right in the door frame of this hallway. It took my breath away and I sat down on the steps. A guard came up immediately to tell me not to sit in the hallway.
Later, in one of the galleries, I sat down on a chair. A guard came and told me I was sitting in his chair, that I should use one of the benches in the middle of the room if I wanted to sit. They are everywhere these guards. But to their credit, when The Man asked one of the guards where the Turner paintings are, he knew exactly where they are and even suggested a route for us to take to see all of them. See, they really like telling you how to do things and where to go.
The National Gallery is full of beautiful paintings by old masters. Monet, Manet, Turner, Degas, Cezanne, Toulouse-Lautrec, they were all here. I was blown away. I came stumbling out of the gallery, overwhelmed. We went to a pub for refreshment. Looking around the pub, I feel I've been in here too. Could I have? Maybe I can find Big Brother and he will tell me.
For example, outside the hotel is a sort of park I think. I don't know for sure because the gates to it are locked. There is a sign on the gate that says, "Do Not Feed The Pigeons. It is Illegal." In smaller print on the sign is "Damage to this sign is an offence." So don't feed the birds and don't touch this sign. Really.
In the Metro, announcements go on and on and on, giving you directions, telling you where you are, advising where roadblocks and constructions are. These announcements are made in that sickly sweet, relaxed, robotic voice from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The voice intends to calm but if you submit to it, you lose your mind.
Even in washrooms they tell you what to do. I went into a public washroom where you have to pay. A man gestured me to put a coin here. Not just into this machine, but with his finger, he indicated exactly where the slot was, like I couldn't see it. He friend pointed at the coin return and said, "Get your change from here. Now walk through this turnstile."
When I was done, I wanted to wash my hands. I stood at a sink away from the cleaning woman. She said, "No, use this sink," pointing at the one closer to her. I walked away from her to use the dryer against the wall. She said, "Use this dryer," indicating the one beside her. I approached the exit turnstile. She shouted after me, "Push the green button to go out, push the green button to go out." Man, I wonder if she was peering into my toilet cubicle to make sure I was wiping myself properly. Later in the evening, when we passed by the washrooms again, we could hear the woman still shouting instructions to unwary users.
Today, The Man and I walked to Trafalgar Square. A giant TV monitor was broadcasting the Olympic closing ceremonies. The square was crowded and we watched the show for a while. Then we bought tickets to a Vivaldi, Mozart, Bach, and Pachebel concert inside the St. Martin-In-The-Fields church for tomorrow night! I loved that we stumbled onto this.
Inside the National Gallery, I stood in a symmetrical hallway that looked out to Trafalgar Square. The giant TV monitor in the square was positioned right in the door frame of this hallway. It took my breath away and I sat down on the steps. A guard came up immediately to tell me not to sit in the hallway.
Later, in one of the galleries, I sat down on a chair. A guard came and told me I was sitting in his chair, that I should use one of the benches in the middle of the room if I wanted to sit. They are everywhere these guards. But to their credit, when The Man asked one of the guards where the Turner paintings are, he knew exactly where they are and even suggested a route for us to take to see all of them. See, they really like telling you how to do things and where to go.
The National Gallery is full of beautiful paintings by old masters. Monet, Manet, Turner, Degas, Cezanne, Toulouse-Lautrec, they were all here. I was blown away. I came stumbling out of the gallery, overwhelmed. We went to a pub for refreshment. Looking around the pub, I feel I've been in here too. Could I have? Maybe I can find Big Brother and he will tell me.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Lost In London
We rode into London by train today. The Exchange went home with his mother. Already, I miss him though we will see him when we visit his father in the south of France.
The Man and I went to the Portobello Road Market. It's an antique/flea market. Shopping is generally not my thing. Walking round to look for old things has no appeal to me at all. I shouldn't have to work so hard to spend my money. But The Man wanted to look for a used hunting wax jacket. What the hell is that? Why does he need one? What self image does he want to capture?
He found a nice wax jacket. You know that you have to wax the jacket to keep it waterproof? I don't even wax the floor, why would I wax a jacket? But then I won't be waxing the jacket. The Man will.
At one spot in the market, I had deja vu again. I had been to that corner before. It would have been raining and I ran down the street and into that corner of the market. When would I have done that? Perhaps the year I ran away and stayed in London for two weeks.
The Exchange phoned from France to tell us the airline had called to say they've found Butterfly Boy's luggage. That means when we get back to Paris, he will have swanky clean clothes to change into. He's one happy boy. It's weird to see him in The Exchange's clothes even though they are the same size.
But I am not so happy right now. I can't gripe about this to The Man, but I can here. The Man arranged for the boys to have dinner with us. He picked a restaurant called Gaucho or something from a guide book and told the boys to meet us there at 7 pm. The boys walked off with the guide book. Wouldn't you know The Man never took down the address of the restaurant. The Boy's cell phone ran out of juice so we couldn't phone him. We walked all over town, bought a map, phone the operator a million times, phoned the hotel a thousand times for messages, looking for the restaurant with the boys waiting in it. There were several restaurants with the same or similar name in London. We never found the boys.
Finally, we gave up and had dinner at a noodle house. Really, restaurant meals are expensive here. Our little meal cost 43 pounds. That's like $86 for a plate of rice with tofu on top.
We finally met the boys back at the hotel. They ate at the restaurant The Man sent them to. The meal wasn't that good they said. But it still cost them 110 pounds. That's $220!! Totally not worth it, they said.
My feet are sore and I need to rest.
The Man and I went to the Portobello Road Market. It's an antique/flea market. Shopping is generally not my thing. Walking round to look for old things has no appeal to me at all. I shouldn't have to work so hard to spend my money. But The Man wanted to look for a used hunting wax jacket. What the hell is that? Why does he need one? What self image does he want to capture?
He found a nice wax jacket. You know that you have to wax the jacket to keep it waterproof? I don't even wax the floor, why would I wax a jacket? But then I won't be waxing the jacket. The Man will.
At one spot in the market, I had deja vu again. I had been to that corner before. It would have been raining and I ran down the street and into that corner of the market. When would I have done that? Perhaps the year I ran away and stayed in London for two weeks.
The Exchange phoned from France to tell us the airline had called to say they've found Butterfly Boy's luggage. That means when we get back to Paris, he will have swanky clean clothes to change into. He's one happy boy. It's weird to see him in The Exchange's clothes even though they are the same size.
But I am not so happy right now. I can't gripe about this to The Man, but I can here. The Man arranged for the boys to have dinner with us. He picked a restaurant called Gaucho or something from a guide book and told the boys to meet us there at 7 pm. The boys walked off with the guide book. Wouldn't you know The Man never took down the address of the restaurant. The Boy's cell phone ran out of juice so we couldn't phone him. We walked all over town, bought a map, phone the operator a million times, phoned the hotel a thousand times for messages, looking for the restaurant with the boys waiting in it. There were several restaurants with the same or similar name in London. We never found the boys.
Finally, we gave up and had dinner at a noodle house. Really, restaurant meals are expensive here. Our little meal cost 43 pounds. That's like $86 for a plate of rice with tofu on top.
We finally met the boys back at the hotel. They ate at the restaurant The Man sent them to. The meal wasn't that good they said. But it still cost them 110 pounds. That's $220!! Totally not worth it, they said.
My feet are sore and I need to rest.
Friday, August 22, 2008
A Lot Of Paris
Yesterday, we met The Exchange's parents for lunch. They are lovely people. But why wouldn't they be given how lovely The Exchange is. They are almost as I imagined them to be, having seen photographs of them before.
I note the different expectations we have of our sons. The Exchange's parents expect him to be cultured and successful. I expect The Boy to be independent and happy. I adore The Exchange because he is interesting and interested, he has vast interests and knowledge areas that make him worldly and sophisticated, we have easy conversations. Recently, I discovered The Exchange likes Asian cinema. How unusual is that in a 17-year-old? They like The Boy because he is smart and funny and generally easy-going. Most of all, they like him because he's happy. His happiness is infectious.
We met at an old French restaurant. They tell me Napoleon held meetings there. The menu claims Voltaire, Balzac, and others have dined there. It is indeed a beautiful, grand restaurant. But I had the feeling I too have dined there before. I can't remember when. That's the thing that's hitting me about Paris this round. Memories merge and meld, then separate. It feels like I am having frequent deja vu moments. I can't tell if I actually have been to a place or whether I just imagined I've been there.
After lunch, The Exchange spent some time with his father while his mother helped us get train tickets to London and hunt for posters. The Man wanted posters, no, mammoth movie or art posters, to cover his walls in Kabul. He saw a few interesting ones, but none that he wanted on his walls.
We ended up at the Pompidou Centre where we looked at Paris from the top of the building. You can pick out most of the monuments and areas of Paris from here. I like aerial views. They puts a place in perspective. The centre has a vast collection of modern art. They rotate the displays every six months so even if you live in Paris and only go to the Pompidou Centre once a year, there is a good chance you will see different works in the galleries.
Maybe our appreciation for art is dependent on familiarity more than genius of the artist. I have trouble liking minimalist abstracts. You know, where three large panels painted in white hang on a wall and they call that art. Or they put a tube structure in the middle of a space and put multi-coloured transparent fibreglass panels around it so you can peer at the object through the panels. I don't get that.
But the whimsical surrealists and cubist paintings of Picasso and Braques - I loved those. I didn't use to. But walking through the Pompidou yesterday, I did. Maybe it's because I am now used to these paintings. I liked how the colours blend, how the image is fragmented and deformed to suggest the subject, and how the appeal of a painting depends on composition. I think these guys were playing with negative space, so you interpret life not by looking at what's there, but what's not there. But when you you put what's not there on canvas, it becomes there, and I don't know what to make of that, except that it's jarring.
Ooh it rained all afternoon in Paris. I don't mind it though everyone is complaining. I like walking in the rain without cover. In fact, I harbour a kind of fantasy of walking through the rain in the streets of London and Paris. But I didn't walk Paris in the open rain. My companions would have thought me crazy. But The Boy, my son who turns his body and pushes me away when I touch him in normal gesticular conversation, would have been embarrassed. I try not to embarrass him all the time. He keeps saying, I just want a normal mother. I don't know what that means.
Alone time is good, I need so much of it. I like exploring a city on my own. Maybe that's the source of my deja vus. They are snippets of memories of me wandering through Paris alone.
I note the different expectations we have of our sons. The Exchange's parents expect him to be cultured and successful. I expect The Boy to be independent and happy. I adore The Exchange because he is interesting and interested, he has vast interests and knowledge areas that make him worldly and sophisticated, we have easy conversations. Recently, I discovered The Exchange likes Asian cinema. How unusual is that in a 17-year-old? They like The Boy because he is smart and funny and generally easy-going. Most of all, they like him because he's happy. His happiness is infectious.
We met at an old French restaurant. They tell me Napoleon held meetings there. The menu claims Voltaire, Balzac, and others have dined there. It is indeed a beautiful, grand restaurant. But I had the feeling I too have dined there before. I can't remember when. That's the thing that's hitting me about Paris this round. Memories merge and meld, then separate. It feels like I am having frequent deja vu moments. I can't tell if I actually have been to a place or whether I just imagined I've been there.
After lunch, The Exchange spent some time with his father while his mother helped us get train tickets to London and hunt for posters. The Man wanted posters, no, mammoth movie or art posters, to cover his walls in Kabul. He saw a few interesting ones, but none that he wanted on his walls.
We ended up at the Pompidou Centre where we looked at Paris from the top of the building. You can pick out most of the monuments and areas of Paris from here. I like aerial views. They puts a place in perspective. The centre has a vast collection of modern art. They rotate the displays every six months so even if you live in Paris and only go to the Pompidou Centre once a year, there is a good chance you will see different works in the galleries.
Maybe our appreciation for art is dependent on familiarity more than genius of the artist. I have trouble liking minimalist abstracts. You know, where three large panels painted in white hang on a wall and they call that art. Or they put a tube structure in the middle of a space and put multi-coloured transparent fibreglass panels around it so you can peer at the object through the panels. I don't get that.
But the whimsical surrealists and cubist paintings of Picasso and Braques - I loved those. I didn't use to. But walking through the Pompidou yesterday, I did. Maybe it's because I am now used to these paintings. I liked how the colours blend, how the image is fragmented and deformed to suggest the subject, and how the appeal of a painting depends on composition. I think these guys were playing with negative space, so you interpret life not by looking at what's there, but what's not there. But when you you put what's not there on canvas, it becomes there, and I don't know what to make of that, except that it's jarring.
Ooh it rained all afternoon in Paris. I don't mind it though everyone is complaining. I like walking in the rain without cover. In fact, I harbour a kind of fantasy of walking through the rain in the streets of London and Paris. But I didn't walk Paris in the open rain. My companions would have thought me crazy. But The Boy, my son who turns his body and pushes me away when I touch him in normal gesticular conversation, would have been embarrassed. I try not to embarrass him all the time. He keeps saying, I just want a normal mother. I don't know what that means.
Alone time is good, I need so much of it. I like exploring a city on my own. Maybe that's the source of my deja vus. They are snippets of memories of me wandering through Paris alone.
Are We Having A Good Time Or What?
The boys are all sick. The Exchange down with a sore throat and fever, The Boy with a cold. I called this one. When The Exchange got sick, I knew The Boy would be next. I believe they caught something at one of their parties before leaving Canada. Butterfly Boy is sick with worry about his lost suitcase. The airline has no leads yet as to what happened to it. We are trying to assess what is a reasonable wait for the suitcase. We've done so much in Paris already that it seems like we've been here for days. In reality, we've only been here 24 hours.
Being sick does not deter the boys from having a good time. I've drugged them up well. And they've slept much when they can.
The Boy and Butterfly Boy got in from their concert around 3 am. They wanted to spend the night at a hotel partying with some British travellers they met at the concert. We said absolutely not. This morning, we were all up and out by 10 am.
The boys then went off on their own. The Man and I walked around the neighbourhood. I marvel at how clean the streets are everywhere. Cleaner than Toronto. Garbage bags are hung everywhere and people use them. I see very few full garbage bags so the bags get changed often. Paris is a city made for walking. I have no map. But I keep hitting spots that I recognize and scant memories surface though I can't put them in order or perspective. I just know I've walked on certain streets, sat at particular cafes, and stood at various street corners waiting. I kept asking The Man, Did we do this or that here? He says yes to some and no to others.
Near the Eiffel Tower, we sat on a bench and I recounted the number of times I have been to Paris:
1. With my high school when I was 16.
2. The year I ran away.
3. The summer I went to Dijon and stopped in Paris for a few days.
4. The year I was 6-months pregnant with The Boy.
5. This summer.
So this is the second time I'm in Paris with The Man. We have yet to sit down and eat a croissant at a cafe.
We took a cab to the Louvre just for fun. The year I went to Dijon, they were in the process of constructing the glass pyramid addition. I didn't go to the Louvre the year I was pregnant. The pyramids are now the entrance to the Louvre. They are a tribute to the vast collection of Egyptian artifacts the Louvre holds.
Inside, we walked around and bumped into the boys, exchanged a quick hello, then went our own way again. I didn't want them to think we were tailing them. Later, the boys phoned from Notre Dame and asked for the key to the apartment. They were tired. We met them and gave them the keys.
The Man and I walked around Les Halles while the boys went home. The modern design and colours of the Pompidou Centre used to impress me with how it contrasted the brown history of Paris. Now it looks rather dull, at least from the outside.
Paris has always been cosmopolitan, and now more so. It is weird to be served by an Asian who speaks French and seemingly possesses the Parisian attitude of being dismissive to non-French speakers. Not that they are rude. They are just so sure they are right about everything and try to effect that brusque, Germanic efficiency. Charming the first few times, then it grates on me.
I am really happy to be here with the boys. I love these boys. But I have decided I don't want to visit Paris any more after this trip. To live, okay. I would like an apartment in one of the straight-face buildings with a balcony. I mean, all those patisseries, fruit shops, restaurants, open spaces. But to visit again? That's like a continuous non-commitment. The romance of the city no longer enchants me as a visitor. Give me the whole thing and let me live here or I visit other places.
Being sick does not deter the boys from having a good time. I've drugged them up well. And they've slept much when they can.
The Boy and Butterfly Boy got in from their concert around 3 am. They wanted to spend the night at a hotel partying with some British travellers they met at the concert. We said absolutely not. This morning, we were all up and out by 10 am.
The boys then went off on their own. The Man and I walked around the neighbourhood. I marvel at how clean the streets are everywhere. Cleaner than Toronto. Garbage bags are hung everywhere and people use them. I see very few full garbage bags so the bags get changed often. Paris is a city made for walking. I have no map. But I keep hitting spots that I recognize and scant memories surface though I can't put them in order or perspective. I just know I've walked on certain streets, sat at particular cafes, and stood at various street corners waiting. I kept asking The Man, Did we do this or that here? He says yes to some and no to others.
Near the Eiffel Tower, we sat on a bench and I recounted the number of times I have been to Paris:
1. With my high school when I was 16.
2. The year I ran away.
3. The summer I went to Dijon and stopped in Paris for a few days.
4. The year I was 6-months pregnant with The Boy.
5. This summer.
So this is the second time I'm in Paris with The Man. We have yet to sit down and eat a croissant at a cafe.
We took a cab to the Louvre just for fun. The year I went to Dijon, they were in the process of constructing the glass pyramid addition. I didn't go to the Louvre the year I was pregnant. The pyramids are now the entrance to the Louvre. They are a tribute to the vast collection of Egyptian artifacts the Louvre holds.
Inside, we walked around and bumped into the boys, exchanged a quick hello, then went our own way again. I didn't want them to think we were tailing them. Later, the boys phoned from Notre Dame and asked for the key to the apartment. They were tired. We met them and gave them the keys.
The Man and I walked around Les Halles while the boys went home. The modern design and colours of the Pompidou Centre used to impress me with how it contrasted the brown history of Paris. Now it looks rather dull, at least from the outside.
Paris has always been cosmopolitan, and now more so. It is weird to be served by an Asian who speaks French and seemingly possesses the Parisian attitude of being dismissive to non-French speakers. Not that they are rude. They are just so sure they are right about everything and try to effect that brusque, Germanic efficiency. Charming the first few times, then it grates on me.
I am really happy to be here with the boys. I love these boys. But I have decided I don't want to visit Paris any more after this trip. To live, okay. I would like an apartment in one of the straight-face buildings with a balcony. I mean, all those patisseries, fruit shops, restaurants, open spaces. But to visit again? That's like a continuous non-commitment. The romance of the city no longer enchants me as a visitor. Give me the whole thing and let me live here or I visit other places.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Me Foreigner
When I was in India, there were many marchers from south of France. I enjoyed their company and tried to speak with them in French. But after a few attempts, we determined that I did not speak French.
So now in Paris, people are speaking French everywhere. Surprisingly, I sometimes get the gist of what they are saying. I feel that all my French would return if I stayed here for a few months. Yet, I can't utter a word in French right now. I've tried. People turn to me with a quizzical look and say, "Pardon?" Or they blurt out something incomprehensible and I think, Better not encourage talk. I can't deliver in this language. I can only nod and smile so much without looking insincere.
Walking around, The Man and I ran into a young man asking us for directions to the supermarket. I would not have believed this man was not native French, he articulated his words so flawlessly, though slowly. He told us he was Spanish. I think if I could string my French words together as musically, I would try harder to speak French. But for now, I am just listening to the sounds around me and trying to acclimatize to my new environment.
It's interesting to see The Exchange operate in his native land. He's more confident and casual. I think he's more macho, though he denies it. The Man surprises me with his French. He's always said he's fluent in French but sometimes I wonder. His translations don't always translate. But now I see him communicating with the French. He understands them. They understand him. Transactions take place. Requests are met. It's amazing. It's a whole side of him I've never seen before. These are the kind of things that keep our marriage fresh.
I am in a part of Paris that is not familiar to me. I can't decide whether that's because I really have never been in this part of town before, or whether it's because I have poor long-term memory and I just don't remember past visits to Paris. The streets are clean and well lit at night. Well-heeled elderly women walk alone with confidence. Cars are parked everywhere, on both sides of the street. Cars easily back up on one way streets or take their time unloading passengers even if many cars are lined up behind. No one has been rude enough to honk. I am glad I am not driving here. Not only do I honk, I shout obscenities at people who block my way. But that's another story.
So now in Paris, people are speaking French everywhere. Surprisingly, I sometimes get the gist of what they are saying. I feel that all my French would return if I stayed here for a few months. Yet, I can't utter a word in French right now. I've tried. People turn to me with a quizzical look and say, "Pardon?" Or they blurt out something incomprehensible and I think, Better not encourage talk. I can't deliver in this language. I can only nod and smile so much without looking insincere.
Walking around, The Man and I ran into a young man asking us for directions to the supermarket. I would not have believed this man was not native French, he articulated his words so flawlessly, though slowly. He told us he was Spanish. I think if I could string my French words together as musically, I would try harder to speak French. But for now, I am just listening to the sounds around me and trying to acclimatize to my new environment.
It's interesting to see The Exchange operate in his native land. He's more confident and casual. I think he's more macho, though he denies it. The Man surprises me with his French. He's always said he's fluent in French but sometimes I wonder. His translations don't always translate. But now I see him communicating with the French. He understands them. They understand him. Transactions take place. Requests are met. It's amazing. It's a whole side of him I've never seen before. These are the kind of things that keep our marriage fresh.
I am in a part of Paris that is not familiar to me. I can't decide whether that's because I really have never been in this part of town before, or whether it's because I have poor long-term memory and I just don't remember past visits to Paris. The streets are clean and well lit at night. Well-heeled elderly women walk alone with confidence. Cars are parked everywhere, on both sides of the street. Cars easily back up on one way streets or take their time unloading passengers even if many cars are lined up behind. No one has been rude enough to honk. I am glad I am not driving here. Not only do I honk, I shout obscenities at people who block my way. But that's another story.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
A Ruckus Beginning
I had been calm and unhurried in the preparation for this trip to France. Until the day of departure. I had arranged for an airport limo to pick us up at 3:30 to take us to the airport. At noon, The Boy gave me a full load of dirty laundry. "I need this done," he said, "I don't have any clean shirts, underwear or socks."
I put the laundry in the washing machine. To my surprise, half of load belongs to The Exchange. Once done, I split the wet clothes into small loads to speed up the drying. At 2:45, I still had wet clothes. I put half into our dryer, half into a basket and went outside. I saw my neighbour mowing his lawn, so I asked if he could dry the clothes in the basket for us. He took the laundry.
I went back into the house to see how The Boy's packing was coming along. His suitcase was in his room, wide open, with nothing inside. I screamed. "We are leaving in 45 minutes and you have packed nothing. Nothing."
Meanwhile, Butterfly Boy arrived. The Exchange was watching something on the computer in his room. He offered to help The Boy pack. I paced the house muttering, Stay calm, stay calm.
At 3:25, The Boy went to our neighbour's to retrieve the laundry. The clothes was still damp. The Boy and The Exchange packed their damp things into their suitcases.
At 3:30, the limo arrived. I said, Give us 5 minutes. The driver said, I have another pick up at 4:35.
As we left the house and I was locking the door, I said to The Boy, "You have your passport?" He looked at me and ran back inside to find it. Finally, at 3:45, we were off.
At the airport, going through the security check, the boys emptied their pockets and took off their belts. They all cleared security with no problem. I thought, "Uh oh, I am going to have a problem."
Sure enough, when I went through the metal detector, the alarm went off. A guard on the other side wanded me. He ran the wand across my waist several times but could not detect where the metal was on my body. I moved his wand to my midsection and said, "Here's what's set off the alarm."
He said, "Is it a belt?"
"No, I am wearing a corset," I whispered.
"You will have to be frisked."
"What, you've never been fat and needed to look good?"
A woman took me aside. I said, "I'm wearing a corset. The metal hooks set off the alarm."
"You want me to check you in private?"
"No. You just need to know what you are looking for."
She frisked me with her hands and ran her fingers along my waist inside my pants. She said, "The corset looks good. It looks very natural."
"Thanks, then it's worth this embarrassment. But I don't want my boys to know my underwear set off the alarm."
She waved me off laughing.
We had an uneventful flight. When we arrived in Paris, The Exchange was burning with a fever. "I am sick," he said.
We waited for our luggage to come down the luggage chute. When I got mine, I gave The Exchange two Tylenols and two Advils. But we took a long time to leave the airport. Butterfly Boy's luggage never showed up. In the end, we had to file a lost luggage report. He is all worried about it. He had gone shopping in Buffalo on the weekend and bought new clothes. He wanted to look sharp for France. Now he will be wearing borrowed clothes. From The Boy at that.
The Man met us in the waiting area of the airport. We took a bus that took us through Paris, then a cab to our apartment. The apartment is in the 15th arrondisement, a ten-minute walk from the Eiffle Tower. Butterfly Boy was all ajitter as we passed the foot of the tower. This is his first time in Europe.
The apartment is small, but clean and nicely kept. It sits across a parkette with a playground where old men in suits play boule. The apartment has a double-bed in the bedroom and a pull-out coach in the living room. There is a small kitchenette and a small bathroom. The boys cleaned up and went to sleep. The Boy and Butterfly Boy shared the coach. The Exchange took the bed. I couldn't sleep. So The Man and I went out for a walk and to have lunch. Ooh everything is expensive here.
I notice all the women, young and old, casually dressed or not, are all very stylish. Even the little kids crying in the playground are stylishly coutured.
Then fatigue hit me. I went back to the apartment and crawled into bed with The Exchange. Under separate blankets of course. I slept for two hours. The boys, including The Exchange, never knew how I bunked. They were all asleep. Only The Man knew.
By 6 pm, I had to wake them. They were supposed to go to a rock concert. The Exchange was too sick to go. He gave the boys directions to the venue. The Man wrote down the address of our apartment and his new cell number in France. Now the boys are off on their own to negotiate their way through the Metro. They are on their first grand adventure in the streets of Paris.
I put the laundry in the washing machine. To my surprise, half of load belongs to The Exchange. Once done, I split the wet clothes into small loads to speed up the drying. At 2:45, I still had wet clothes. I put half into our dryer, half into a basket and went outside. I saw my neighbour mowing his lawn, so I asked if he could dry the clothes in the basket for us. He took the laundry.
I went back into the house to see how The Boy's packing was coming along. His suitcase was in his room, wide open, with nothing inside. I screamed. "We are leaving in 45 minutes and you have packed nothing. Nothing."
Meanwhile, Butterfly Boy arrived. The Exchange was watching something on the computer in his room. He offered to help The Boy pack. I paced the house muttering, Stay calm, stay calm.
At 3:25, The Boy went to our neighbour's to retrieve the laundry. The clothes was still damp. The Boy and The Exchange packed their damp things into their suitcases.
At 3:30, the limo arrived. I said, Give us 5 minutes. The driver said, I have another pick up at 4:35.
As we left the house and I was locking the door, I said to The Boy, "You have your passport?" He looked at me and ran back inside to find it. Finally, at 3:45, we were off.
At the airport, going through the security check, the boys emptied their pockets and took off their belts. They all cleared security with no problem. I thought, "Uh oh, I am going to have a problem."
Sure enough, when I went through the metal detector, the alarm went off. A guard on the other side wanded me. He ran the wand across my waist several times but could not detect where the metal was on my body. I moved his wand to my midsection and said, "Here's what's set off the alarm."
He said, "Is it a belt?"
"No, I am wearing a corset," I whispered.
"You will have to be frisked."
"What, you've never been fat and needed to look good?"
A woman took me aside. I said, "I'm wearing a corset. The metal hooks set off the alarm."
"You want me to check you in private?"
"No. You just need to know what you are looking for."
She frisked me with her hands and ran her fingers along my waist inside my pants. She said, "The corset looks good. It looks very natural."
"Thanks, then it's worth this embarrassment. But I don't want my boys to know my underwear set off the alarm."
She waved me off laughing.
We had an uneventful flight. When we arrived in Paris, The Exchange was burning with a fever. "I am sick," he said.
We waited for our luggage to come down the luggage chute. When I got mine, I gave The Exchange two Tylenols and two Advils. But we took a long time to leave the airport. Butterfly Boy's luggage never showed up. In the end, we had to file a lost luggage report. He is all worried about it. He had gone shopping in Buffalo on the weekend and bought new clothes. He wanted to look sharp for France. Now he will be wearing borrowed clothes. From The Boy at that.
The Man met us in the waiting area of the airport. We took a bus that took us through Paris, then a cab to our apartment. The apartment is in the 15th arrondisement, a ten-minute walk from the Eiffle Tower. Butterfly Boy was all ajitter as we passed the foot of the tower. This is his first time in Europe.
The apartment is small, but clean and nicely kept. It sits across a parkette with a playground where old men in suits play boule. The apartment has a double-bed in the bedroom and a pull-out coach in the living room. There is a small kitchenette and a small bathroom. The boys cleaned up and went to sleep. The Boy and Butterfly Boy shared the coach. The Exchange took the bed. I couldn't sleep. So The Man and I went out for a walk and to have lunch. Ooh everything is expensive here.
I notice all the women, young and old, casually dressed or not, are all very stylish. Even the little kids crying in the playground are stylishly coutured.
Then fatigue hit me. I went back to the apartment and crawled into bed with The Exchange. Under separate blankets of course. I slept for two hours. The boys, including The Exchange, never knew how I bunked. They were all asleep. Only The Man knew.
By 6 pm, I had to wake them. They were supposed to go to a rock concert. The Exchange was too sick to go. He gave the boys directions to the venue. The Man wrote down the address of our apartment and his new cell number in France. Now the boys are off on their own to negotiate their way through the Metro. They are on their first grand adventure in the streets of Paris.
Monday, August 18, 2008
We're Going That Way
It's a consensus. Everyone thinks I'm a bad driver. Just because I cut curb corners, miss exit signs, can't see road markings, and jerk the car. No guts these whiners. The way they gotta look at it is, every drive with me is an adventure. Hell, life with me is an adventure.
So it is with this spirit of adventure that I go to Europe tomorrow. I have not planned out what to see and do in Paris and London. In fact, I have no idea what we will be doing in Europe or even why we are going. But the flights have been bought and accommodations have been made.
I am just going to wake up each day and see where my nose leads me. What's wrong with a trip of discovery and simply soaking in the atmosphere of the cities? It's not like I've never been to Paris and London. It's not like I've never travelled. In fact, based on experience, I know that things will work out the way they will whether you plan them or not.
It's off to Paris then with me, The Boy, The Exchange, and Butterfly Boy. So much budding testosterone around me. We will meet The Man there. So help me, if any of them complain about anything, I'm ditching them and travelling by myself.
But first, I have to pack and print off the e-tickets. We don't need a visa for the U.K. and France, right? Nah, we don't. I hope. Where's my camera?
So it is with this spirit of adventure that I go to Europe tomorrow. I have not planned out what to see and do in Paris and London. In fact, I have no idea what we will be doing in Europe or even why we are going. But the flights have been bought and accommodations have been made.
I am just going to wake up each day and see where my nose leads me. What's wrong with a trip of discovery and simply soaking in the atmosphere of the cities? It's not like I've never been to Paris and London. It's not like I've never travelled. In fact, based on experience, I know that things will work out the way they will whether you plan them or not.
It's off to Paris then with me, The Boy, The Exchange, and Butterfly Boy. So much budding testosterone around me. We will meet The Man there. So help me, if any of them complain about anything, I'm ditching them and travelling by myself.
But first, I have to pack and print off the e-tickets. We don't need a visa for the U.K. and France, right? Nah, we don't. I hope. Where's my camera?
Saturday, August 16, 2008
My Midsummer Night's Dream
Well, fuck me.
Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream was about a night of discoveries, of couplings and of romance. Last night, I had my own midsummer night's dream. I made discoveries of a different kind well into the night. Like till 3 am.
The Boy and The Exchange wanted to have friends over. Last night was the only night they could do it. No more than ten friends they said. I agreed to make myself scarce and let him have the house till I came home for the evening. But I had a headache all afternoon. Then it started to rain hard. So I stayed in. I rented two movies and watched them on my laptop in my room.
Through my headset, I could hear faint sounds of The Boy and his friends out front talking. They weren't laughing loudly, shouting or screaming. But they were drinking beer and some smoking cigarettes. Most of these kids are 18, one even 19. I wasn't going to make a fuss.
When my first movie ended, I realized all was quiet out front. I thought The Boy's friends had left as it was after midnight. I went downstairs. I met Ryn in the living room. She asked if I knew what had just happened. She explained.
About 30 minutes ago, The Boy had moved everyone out back because he didn't want their voices to wake up the neighbours. Then a neighbour knocked on the door to ask if a Mazda 3 parked down the street belonged to anyone in the house. It belonged to The Boy's friend, Rie.
The neighbour had heard a window breaking, came out of his house, and saw an older man riding away from the car on his bicycle. He checked the car and saw that a brick had been thrown in to smash the car window. He phoned the police.
The police was already examining the car when I went outside. Rie said her iPod had been taken from her car. She had left it where it was visible. That was the only thing that was missing. The vandal had not noticed her father's very expensive digital camera under the seat.
During the kerfuffle that ensued, some of the kids stood out front and smoked. Our next door neighbour came home and offered me a cigarette. That's when The Boy came out and saw me. He raised his eyebrows and went back into the house.
A few minutes later, The Exchange came out, took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit a cigarette. Then he saw me and went into a guilty fit. He cornered me to explain. I said I needed no explanation. He said he needed me to understand. He's a social smoker, not an addict. It was very important to him that I not think less of him because he smoked occasionally. I was smirking to myself. Really, do I know any social or occasional smokers?
Then another kid, Ani, gave me his life story. He's turned himself around, he said. He belonged to a gang, dealt drugs, had been arrested for assault, and been in jail. But he's clean now, he said. He's changed his life around because of the love of a good woman. They are no longer together but she had a lasting impact on him. Also, the loyalty of the gang mind is still there. If The Boy or any of his friends were in trouble, he would protect them.
"You're lucky," he said, "The Boy is such a good guy. He's so anti-smoking and anti-drugs. But he's fun to be with. Me, sometimes I feel like I've seen too much and lived too much. I've experienced more than some people in a life time. But now I am beautiful. Look at this face and smile." Ani is 18. He's in the same year at school as The Boy. He's going to university to do computer science in September.
I put away all the empty beer bottles. I said, "The police might come in when they finish dusting Rie's car. I don't want them to associate the break-in with beer in this house. The officers out there are young and inexperienced." The kids understood what I meant and helped pick up the empties.
Then Rie's car alarm went off. While taking photographs and fingerprints in her car, the police set off her car alarm, not once, but twice, at 2 am. After the second time, Rie unlocked her car and offered them her car keys. See, inexperienced they are.
Later, Ani said to The Exchange, "Ryn needs you outside. Know what I mean?" He rubbed his hands together. The Exchange went outside. I said, "I don't know what that means. Is Ryn okay?"
"She's fine. She just wanted to be with The Exchange."
"They're dating?"
"Yes."
Huh?
The last time The Boy and I walked back into the house together, I put my arm around him. I said, "This night was like our Midsummer Night's Dream. It was our night of discovery of many things."
He said, "Thanks for being so cool about everything."
When the police left at 3 am, some of the the kids left, some went back into the house. They made food, watched TV, played guitar and sang. Not loud and ruckus noise. Just pleasant, relaxing choral singing. They sang till who knows when before they fell asleep.
Here's what I have learned from this experience.
1. Young people and alcohol don't mix. I know alcohol was unrelated to the car break-in. But it's like bad karma. You have young people, you have alcohol, bad things happen. It's a law of nature.
2. The Boy has really interesting friends who are responsible, good kids.
3. Good for The Boy to be strong of character and ethics to not smoke or do drugs when his friends do and he has access to people with these substances.
4. The Exchange feels stressed, pressured, and angry about needing to choose a direction in his life when he isn't ready. Yet, he feels the need to please. He is an adorable but conflicted soul. Hence why he adores The Boy. "He is so happy all the time," said The Exchange.
5. In a way I can't explain, The Boy and I bonded.
Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream was about a night of discoveries, of couplings and of romance. Last night, I had my own midsummer night's dream. I made discoveries of a different kind well into the night. Like till 3 am.
The Boy and The Exchange wanted to have friends over. Last night was the only night they could do it. No more than ten friends they said. I agreed to make myself scarce and let him have the house till I came home for the evening. But I had a headache all afternoon. Then it started to rain hard. So I stayed in. I rented two movies and watched them on my laptop in my room.
Through my headset, I could hear faint sounds of The Boy and his friends out front talking. They weren't laughing loudly, shouting or screaming. But they were drinking beer and some smoking cigarettes. Most of these kids are 18, one even 19. I wasn't going to make a fuss.
When my first movie ended, I realized all was quiet out front. I thought The Boy's friends had left as it was after midnight. I went downstairs. I met Ryn in the living room. She asked if I knew what had just happened. She explained.
About 30 minutes ago, The Boy had moved everyone out back because he didn't want their voices to wake up the neighbours. Then a neighbour knocked on the door to ask if a Mazda 3 parked down the street belonged to anyone in the house. It belonged to The Boy's friend, Rie.
The neighbour had heard a window breaking, came out of his house, and saw an older man riding away from the car on his bicycle. He checked the car and saw that a brick had been thrown in to smash the car window. He phoned the police.
The police was already examining the car when I went outside. Rie said her iPod had been taken from her car. She had left it where it was visible. That was the only thing that was missing. The vandal had not noticed her father's very expensive digital camera under the seat.
During the kerfuffle that ensued, some of the kids stood out front and smoked. Our next door neighbour came home and offered me a cigarette. That's when The Boy came out and saw me. He raised his eyebrows and went back into the house.
A few minutes later, The Exchange came out, took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit a cigarette. Then he saw me and went into a guilty fit. He cornered me to explain. I said I needed no explanation. He said he needed me to understand. He's a social smoker, not an addict. It was very important to him that I not think less of him because he smoked occasionally. I was smirking to myself. Really, do I know any social or occasional smokers?
Then another kid, Ani, gave me his life story. He's turned himself around, he said. He belonged to a gang, dealt drugs, had been arrested for assault, and been in jail. But he's clean now, he said. He's changed his life around because of the love of a good woman. They are no longer together but she had a lasting impact on him. Also, the loyalty of the gang mind is still there. If The Boy or any of his friends were in trouble, he would protect them.
"You're lucky," he said, "The Boy is such a good guy. He's so anti-smoking and anti-drugs. But he's fun to be with. Me, sometimes I feel like I've seen too much and lived too much. I've experienced more than some people in a life time. But now I am beautiful. Look at this face and smile." Ani is 18. He's in the same year at school as The Boy. He's going to university to do computer science in September.
I put away all the empty beer bottles. I said, "The police might come in when they finish dusting Rie's car. I don't want them to associate the break-in with beer in this house. The officers out there are young and inexperienced." The kids understood what I meant and helped pick up the empties.
Then Rie's car alarm went off. While taking photographs and fingerprints in her car, the police set off her car alarm, not once, but twice, at 2 am. After the second time, Rie unlocked her car and offered them her car keys. See, inexperienced they are.
Later, Ani said to The Exchange, "Ryn needs you outside. Know what I mean?" He rubbed his hands together. The Exchange went outside. I said, "I don't know what that means. Is Ryn okay?"
"She's fine. She just wanted to be with The Exchange."
"They're dating?"
"Yes."
Huh?
The last time The Boy and I walked back into the house together, I put my arm around him. I said, "This night was like our Midsummer Night's Dream. It was our night of discovery of many things."
He said, "Thanks for being so cool about everything."
When the police left at 3 am, some of the the kids left, some went back into the house. They made food, watched TV, played guitar and sang. Not loud and ruckus noise. Just pleasant, relaxing choral singing. They sang till who knows when before they fell asleep.
Here's what I have learned from this experience.
1. Young people and alcohol don't mix. I know alcohol was unrelated to the car break-in. But it's like bad karma. You have young people, you have alcohol, bad things happen. It's a law of nature.
2. The Boy has really interesting friends who are responsible, good kids.
3. Good for The Boy to be strong of character and ethics to not smoke or do drugs when his friends do and he has access to people with these substances.
4. The Exchange feels stressed, pressured, and angry about needing to choose a direction in his life when he isn't ready. Yet, he feels the need to please. He is an adorable but conflicted soul. Hence why he adores The Boy. "He is so happy all the time," said The Exchange.
5. In a way I can't explain, The Boy and I bonded.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Be A Gentleman
The Man's brother and his wife are coming to stay for two weeks while we are in Europe. We will be overlapping our time in Toronto by three days, which gives us a chance to visit.
I have offered my king-size bed to them. I would sleep somewhere else in the house. When I explained the situation to The Boy, he said, "I am not moving out of my room to sleep in the basement."
When I explained the situation to The Exchange later, he immediately offered me his bed so he could sleep in the basement. I said, "That's because you are a gentleman. I would like The Boy to be a gentleman."
This week, The Boy, The Exchange, and The Boy's friend Ane, went out. They came back late. In the morning, I saw by the front door The Boy's shoes, The Exchange's shoes, and Ane's shoes.
But I didn't see Ane on the couch in the basement. Ane was not anywhere in the house that I could see. I did see signs of rifling for an extra blanket. The Boy's bedroom door was closed. He has a double bed. I could only assume he and Ane were sharing a bed. The only thing is, Ane is a girl.
Not only that. Ane is Butterfly Boy's ex-girlfriend. Butterfly Boy is The Boy's best friend. And the fact he's sharing a bed with a girl, whether there's any action in bed or not, doesn't sit well with me. I mean, his need for sexual privacy ought to be an incentive for him to move out into his own apartment one day. I give a lot as a parent, but I have boundaries. The Boy at 17 sharing his bed with a girl in my house is one of them. I need to nip this one in the bud.
After consulting with The Man in Kabul, I had a little chat with The Boy. He said, "Nothing happened. We slept head to toe in separate blankets. We're just friends."
I said, "That's not the point. I am uncomfortable with you sharing a bed with a girl, any girl, in my house."
"But it's my bed, my room. Ane and I have no problem sharing a bed."
"It's my house. I have house rules."
"You were okay and in fact insisted Hen and I share a bed when we were in Montreal."
"Hen is a boy."
"That's discrimination."
"The fact that I'm uncomfortable is reason enough for you not to do it. Besides, you need to be a gentleman. Next time, you should offer Ane or any girl, your bed and you sleep in the basement. It's ungentlemanly to force a girl to squeeze into your bed, even if you are just friends. It also puts me in an awkward situation. I don't think Ane's parents would approve her coming over here to share a bed with you no matter how innocent. It gets even messier if Butterfly Boy finds out and feels betrayed, even if they have broken up. By being a gentleman, you save a lot of grief for yourself and other people. Sometimes, that's the balance between personal needs and desires and the well-being of the community.
Be a gentleman. You can start by offering me your bed when your uncle and aunt come to stay. I am giving them my bed. I could sleep in the basement. But you would be demonstrating your gentlemanliness by offering your bed to your mother."
The next day, The Boy offered me his bed.
I have offered my king-size bed to them. I would sleep somewhere else in the house. When I explained the situation to The Boy, he said, "I am not moving out of my room to sleep in the basement."
When I explained the situation to The Exchange later, he immediately offered me his bed so he could sleep in the basement. I said, "That's because you are a gentleman. I would like The Boy to be a gentleman."
This week, The Boy, The Exchange, and The Boy's friend Ane, went out. They came back late. In the morning, I saw by the front door The Boy's shoes, The Exchange's shoes, and Ane's shoes.
But I didn't see Ane on the couch in the basement. Ane was not anywhere in the house that I could see. I did see signs of rifling for an extra blanket. The Boy's bedroom door was closed. He has a double bed. I could only assume he and Ane were sharing a bed. The only thing is, Ane is a girl.
Not only that. Ane is Butterfly Boy's ex-girlfriend. Butterfly Boy is The Boy's best friend. And the fact he's sharing a bed with a girl, whether there's any action in bed or not, doesn't sit well with me. I mean, his need for sexual privacy ought to be an incentive for him to move out into his own apartment one day. I give a lot as a parent, but I have boundaries. The Boy at 17 sharing his bed with a girl in my house is one of them. I need to nip this one in the bud.
After consulting with The Man in Kabul, I had a little chat with The Boy. He said, "Nothing happened. We slept head to toe in separate blankets. We're just friends."
I said, "That's not the point. I am uncomfortable with you sharing a bed with a girl, any girl, in my house."
"But it's my bed, my room. Ane and I have no problem sharing a bed."
"It's my house. I have house rules."
"You were okay and in fact insisted Hen and I share a bed when we were in Montreal."
"Hen is a boy."
"That's discrimination."
"The fact that I'm uncomfortable is reason enough for you not to do it. Besides, you need to be a gentleman. Next time, you should offer Ane or any girl, your bed and you sleep in the basement. It's ungentlemanly to force a girl to squeeze into your bed, even if you are just friends. It also puts me in an awkward situation. I don't think Ane's parents would approve her coming over here to share a bed with you no matter how innocent. It gets even messier if Butterfly Boy finds out and feels betrayed, even if they have broken up. By being a gentleman, you save a lot of grief for yourself and other people. Sometimes, that's the balance between personal needs and desires and the well-being of the community.
Be a gentleman. You can start by offering me your bed when your uncle and aunt come to stay. I am giving them my bed. I could sleep in the basement. But you would be demonstrating your gentlemanliness by offering your bed to your mother."
The next day, The Boy offered me his bed.
Monday, August 11, 2008
I Am Everywhere
We just got back from a great weekend in Montreal. Truly fun and relaxing. Satisfying seeing the boys wonder off to explore a city on their own and still hook up with us for dinner. Even the disappointing food was good, but generally great food all weekend. Lots of walking so I even lost a pound. Excellent company (there were 11 of us altogether) despite mom being pesty and complaining.
For me though, it's always The Boy. At times, he's still like my favourite toy.
When we checked in at the hotel, I gave the boys their keys while I sorted the rest of us out. By the time I returned to the registration desk to finish our details, the boys were already in their room. As I was talking to the hotel receptionist, she said, "What timing. That's your boys phoning the front desk now." I asked if I could answer the phone, so she handed the phone to me.
Me - Yes? What can I do for you, Boy?
Boy - Huh? What?
- What would you like?
- Mom? How...why... What are you doing?
- You want something? What are you calling about?
- No way. How...?
But I couldn't talk to The Boy without laughing hysterically, so after a while, he just hung up on me.
The next day, the boys were off on their own. Mom and I walked the streets of Montreal. At one point, I saw a man sitting on an armchair on the sidewalk. A film camera was pointed at him. A woman was in front of the camera giving direction. I thought, what are they doing? So I stepped closer to the man in the armchair to have a better look. He was just sitting there. So I went on my way.
When I got back to the hotel, I called The Boy's room to give them the dinner plans. The Boy answered and said, "Mom? Where are you? What were you doing?"
- I'm in my room. I just got back from walking around.
- We just saw you on TV.
- Where?
- You were walking behind a man sitting on a chair. The camera focused on pau-pau and gave her a closeup.
- There you go. Now you know what we were doing.
Later, I said to The Boy, "You know, I am everywhere."
He said, "Yeah, I know. Scary."
For me though, it's always The Boy. At times, he's still like my favourite toy.
When we checked in at the hotel, I gave the boys their keys while I sorted the rest of us out. By the time I returned to the registration desk to finish our details, the boys were already in their room. As I was talking to the hotel receptionist, she said, "What timing. That's your boys phoning the front desk now." I asked if I could answer the phone, so she handed the phone to me.
Me - Yes? What can I do for you, Boy?
Boy - Huh? What?
- What would you like?
- Mom? How...why... What are you doing?
- You want something? What are you calling about?
- No way. How...?
But I couldn't talk to The Boy without laughing hysterically, so after a while, he just hung up on me.
The next day, the boys were off on their own. Mom and I walked the streets of Montreal. At one point, I saw a man sitting on an armchair on the sidewalk. A film camera was pointed at him. A woman was in front of the camera giving direction. I thought, what are they doing? So I stepped closer to the man in the armchair to have a better look. He was just sitting there. So I went on my way.
When I got back to the hotel, I called The Boy's room to give them the dinner plans. The Boy answered and said, "Mom? Where are you? What were you doing?"
- I'm in my room. I just got back from walking around.
- We just saw you on TV.
- Where?
- You were walking behind a man sitting on a chair. The camera focused on pau-pau and gave her a closeup.
- There you go. Now you know what we were doing.
Later, I said to The Boy, "You know, I am everywhere."
He said, "Yeah, I know. Scary."
Thursday, August 07, 2008
The Traveller's Wife
I have a much better appreciation of The Time Traveller's Wife these days. When I read the book, I thought it was creepy and sappy. I mean, you have this guy who travels back in time to meet his wife when she was six years old. How pedophilic is that?
But with The Man coming and going so often these days, I feel he is always leaving me. Just like the wife in the book. Except I know when to expect The Man's comings and goings. I help arrange his travels.
The part of the book I appreciate more now is the wife's constant waiting and yearning, trying to build a life with her husband while living on her own. As strange as that sounds, it is also kind of romantic. It's like always anticipating the lover's return while denying his existence. Like Etta waiting for the Sundance Kid but rides the bike with Butch. Like the queen waiting for her musketeer lover while serving the king.
So The Man left me again tonight. When I got home from dropping him off at the airport, he's already left a sweet message on the phone for me. And I think, wait, wait. Is that from the lover or the husband? Then I said, Does it matter? Even in my over-romanticized fantasy of my marriage, it doesn't.
But with The Man coming and going so often these days, I feel he is always leaving me. Just like the wife in the book. Except I know when to expect The Man's comings and goings. I help arrange his travels.
The part of the book I appreciate more now is the wife's constant waiting and yearning, trying to build a life with her husband while living on her own. As strange as that sounds, it is also kind of romantic. It's like always anticipating the lover's return while denying his existence. Like Etta waiting for the Sundance Kid but rides the bike with Butch. Like the queen waiting for her musketeer lover while serving the king.
So The Man left me again tonight. When I got home from dropping him off at the airport, he's already left a sweet message on the phone for me. And I think, wait, wait. Is that from the lover or the husband? Then I said, Does it matter? Even in my over-romanticized fantasy of my marriage, it doesn't.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Deer Crossing
It's not true there is no communion with nature during camping. One of the fond memories I have of this trip was when we came back from a movie late one night. It must've been after midnight.
We drove down the road towards the park with the high beam on. Far in the distance, we saw the hind legs of a deer jumping into the bush on the left side of the road. When The Man came to the spot where the deer crossed, he veered the car slowly towards the trees to get a better look. We saw nothing.
Then on the right side of the road, a small head poked out from the bush. I said, "Look guys, over there!" We all held our breath and stared at the little head. It was a baby deer, following its mother. The fawn stepped gingerly onto the road. With the car head lights blazing at it, it crossed the road slowly to join its mother.
That was quite a treat, to have this late night private viewing.
We drove down the road towards the park with the high beam on. Far in the distance, we saw the hind legs of a deer jumping into the bush on the left side of the road. When The Man came to the spot where the deer crossed, he veered the car slowly towards the trees to get a better look. We saw nothing.
Then on the right side of the road, a small head poked out from the bush. I said, "Look guys, over there!" We all held our breath and stared at the little head. It was a baby deer, following its mother. The fawn stepped gingerly onto the road. With the car head lights blazing at it, it crossed the road slowly to join its mother.
That was quite a treat, to have this late night private viewing.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
It Is What It Is
It's hard to describe the pleasure I get from our family camping trips.
They are disorganized despite planning them five months in advance. They are confusing as plans fly about, we try to accommodate each other, and no one is sure what they are doing for the day until last minute. They are noisy as children start shouting as soon as the sun rises. They are a lot of work, both in preparation and decamping. But god, I love them.
The pleasure for me is multi-fold.
I get to live outdoors, like the vagabond I am at heart. Even at home, I try not to be inside the house. It is a sensual, spiritual experience, sitting in front of an open fire, tending it, feeling protected by the night, the forest, and all my favourite people around me.
I get to spend six days with my favourite people doing nothing more mind-boggling than talking, shopping, planning and making meals, laying about, you know - shared living, like in a commune, but still have your private tent. And everyone just kind of shrugs and says, oh well, if things don't quite work out.
I like cooking and eating outdoors. Food just taste better.
I love seeing the joy and carefree faces of the kids, shy at first, then purposeful and jubilant as they get used to each other, as they seek each other out to play, as they run errands for their parents, as they walk along singing and talking, oblivious to me watching and listening to them. At the end of the trip, all the kids want to camp together again next year.
I love how the different generations and different aged kids can spend time together and enjoy themselves.
The Boy plays guitar now. I love listening to him play and how he gathers the younger kids around him, coordinates them to sing back up as he strums out a tune and sings off key.
I love how we wear similar clothes. That is, we own the same items. Which means we buy things from the same store - my mother, my neighbour and me, my neighbour's girls. Which is incredible, that the same store satisfies the needs of three generations with the same line of clothing. That, or we are just not fashionistas and we are happy wearing basics.
I like the showers at the comfort station. They are fierce and pound on your head after shampooing so you are rinsed off in seconds.
I especially loved seeing how helpful The Boy was this year, during walks to the beach, at meal time, and when decamping. I thought he was responsible and gentlemanly through out. I only needed to yell at him a couple of times.
And oh oh, even though The Exchange is even more like a son to me than before, I still like how he hugged me in the lake because the water was cold.
Yes, these camping trips are a social outing. No use pretending we are seeking solitude or communing with nature.
They are disorganized despite planning them five months in advance. They are confusing as plans fly about, we try to accommodate each other, and no one is sure what they are doing for the day until last minute. They are noisy as children start shouting as soon as the sun rises. They are a lot of work, both in preparation and decamping. But god, I love them.
The pleasure for me is multi-fold.
I get to live outdoors, like the vagabond I am at heart. Even at home, I try not to be inside the house. It is a sensual, spiritual experience, sitting in front of an open fire, tending it, feeling protected by the night, the forest, and all my favourite people around me.
I get to spend six days with my favourite people doing nothing more mind-boggling than talking, shopping, planning and making meals, laying about, you know - shared living, like in a commune, but still have your private tent. And everyone just kind of shrugs and says, oh well, if things don't quite work out.
I like cooking and eating outdoors. Food just taste better.
I love seeing the joy and carefree faces of the kids, shy at first, then purposeful and jubilant as they get used to each other, as they seek each other out to play, as they run errands for their parents, as they walk along singing and talking, oblivious to me watching and listening to them. At the end of the trip, all the kids want to camp together again next year.
I love how the different generations and different aged kids can spend time together and enjoy themselves.
The Boy plays guitar now. I love listening to him play and how he gathers the younger kids around him, coordinates them to sing back up as he strums out a tune and sings off key.
I love how we wear similar clothes. That is, we own the same items. Which means we buy things from the same store - my mother, my neighbour and me, my neighbour's girls. Which is incredible, that the same store satisfies the needs of three generations with the same line of clothing. That, or we are just not fashionistas and we are happy wearing basics.
I like the showers at the comfort station. They are fierce and pound on your head after shampooing so you are rinsed off in seconds.
I especially loved seeing how helpful The Boy was this year, during walks to the beach, at meal time, and when decamping. I thought he was responsible and gentlemanly through out. I only needed to yell at him a couple of times.
And oh oh, even though The Exchange is even more like a son to me than before, I still like how he hugged me in the lake because the water was cold.
Yes, these camping trips are a social outing. No use pretending we are seeking solitude or communing with nature.
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