That Crazy Man

The Man has this habit of always trying to upgrade his accommodation when he travels. I think he looks for things to complain about, complain about it, and get attention. Maybe he does it to feel special.

We've been meaning to leave Bali for a week now, but we always find something more we want to do. We've given our hotel notice three times that we are leaving and changed our mind each time. Yesterday, we extended our stay one last time. Except this time, the hotel couldn't keep us in our room. It's been reserved for someone coming in for a long stay.

But, the hotel offered, you can move into the next room, room 28. The occupants are leaving so you can move in after they check out. Fine, said The Man. But check out time is 1 pm. The hotel asked if we would mind moving our luggage to room 16, go on with our day, then when room 28 is ready, they will move our bags there.

When I saw room 16, I said to The Man, "This is a nicer room. It's much brighter. I like the window at the head of the bed and the window in the back wall. It's cozy and romantic. Why don't we just keep this room."

"This room is smaller," growled The Man and he plunked himself down in a chair to wait. I went swimming, then got The Man to go to the beach. It was a waste of time to sit there just to make sure them moved us to room 28.

So we had a nice day at the beach. When we got back, our things had been moved into room 28. We took our showers, The Man threw back the covers and laid in bed to watch TV, I sat on the veranda to smoke a cigarette. We settled in, so I thought. The Man came out and kept the room door open to fuss about something. He said, "Uh oh, a little lizard just went into the room." He tried to get it out.

A little while later, he went to the hotel reception. He came back and said, "Don't get upset and don't roll your eyes. You were right and I was wrong. I just went to ask that they move us back to room 16. They said no problem."

"But we used the towels in this room, we laid in the bed, I butted out in the ashtray."

The porter came and moved us. I said, "We showered and used the towels, we laid in the bed, I used the ashtray." He said, "No problem."

So we got moved back into room 16.

In Search Of Dreamland

Because The Man wants to pursue surfing, he's been visiting surf shops and asking everyone where good surfing is. I don't understand. Regardless of where you go in, isn't it still the Indian ocean from here?

He keeps hearing about a place called Dreamland. There are cliffs there you look down from and see the surfers come in. The place is away from the main tourist drag so you get your own strip of ocean to surf in.

So one day, we rented a motorcycle and went in search of Dreamland. We had no map, just vague directions like, Go that way until you see the statue, go left till you get to the Mickey D restaurant, the ask for more directions. Or we get simply a chop of the arm to indicate go straight, with a sweep of the said arm to indicate turn left or right at some point. So we rode and rode for what seemed like hours. We stopped for petrol twice.

Finally, I saw a shop that said Dreamland Laundry or some such. We must be in the area, I thought. But we rode and rode some more and received similar directions as before and never did we see anything that resembled a beach or cliffs, though the villages we passed were beautiful and impoverished at the same time. The Balinese seem to live in peace and contentment no matter what they do or how old they are, and always the big, bright, charming, sometimes shy smiles.

At last we saw a sign that said Uluwata Beach with an arrow. We followed it. After a while, there before us was a group of women hawking sarongs and t-shirts. "Hello, what's your name?" they wanted to know. When I asked for their names, one said, "My name is Jenny Smith." The other said, "My name is Sue, how do you do?" Right. And they knew it, because neither looked me in the eye. It's one of those things you let go because it's the respectful and good natured thing to do.

The Man adroitly ran ahead of me. Jenny Smith stalled me and persuaded. Persuade? Harass. Jenny Smith harassed me into buying a t-shirt. Then Sue tried to talk me into a second. I ran away as fast as I could, shouting, No, no, no more.

Walking down the steps towards the cliffs, I thought the shanties around us were pretty rough looking. A monkey met me on the way, then threw himself on a terrace and sprawled out to scratch himself, showing me everything he's got. Later, The Man told me that monkey hissed at him and made ready to attack because he had shouted at it or something. Near that monkey, a woman was taking photographs of a pair of mother monkeys with their babies. So I did too.

Finally, I got to the edge of the cliff. It was a view looking down to the waves for sure. There were boulders, mud slides, cliffs. Hardly worth the ride getting there. Why do they call this Dreamland?

After a few minutes, we walked back to the bike, planning our defence against the hawkers. It was hard. The Man ended up buying himself a t-shirt.

Then we motored it out of there, following what we thought was the same route we came. After many arms pointing and hands gesturing directions for us, we came back into Seminyak a different route. We came through a huge shopping complex of designer shops - Kuta proper. I am so glad we didn't stay in this place. The Man was bowled over to see the shops. He thought we had been in Kuta all this time, when we had been in Seminyak.

That's the difference in how we approach life. I need my guidebooks. He just goes on assumption, hope, and luck. Maybe that's how we complement and balance each other. And all the bumping and jiggling and bouncing on the road, that just cleansing, because we each had to do a big dump after the ride. It's all good.

When we got back and told someone where we had been, we were told we weren't at Dreamland at all. Uluwata Beach is not Dreamland. Huhn and huhn.

So there you go. It doesn't matter whether we get to our destination or not, it was still quite a ride, and I loved every discovery minute of it.

Downhill, Uphill

It’s very hot in the mornings. I see why so many ex-pat women just let it all hang out. When you’ve been in this weather for a long time, you just stop caring. I want to run around naked, but I don’t like having any of my body parts be seen to hang, swing, or jiggle.

But Monday was different. It was overcast and cool, the perfect day for cycling. The Bali Eco Cycling and Education Tour is the most well-organized outfit I have ever encountered. We took a bicycle tour with them and enjoyed it tremendously. The tour touts a 2.5-hour downhill ride through rice paddies, villages, and the real Bali, a side of Bali that tourists often don’t see. They were true to their word.

The guide was an exquisite blend of teacher, proud Balinese, and athlete. For our tour, there were only five of us. They usually go with many more, up to 40 people, and have done up to 100 for special occasions. We had the guide all to ourselves. Despite the small number of participants, they still dispatched a passenger van to pick up riders who conk out before the ride finishes, and a truck with extra bikes and to pick up the bikes of those who conk out. So that’s three guides and two vehicles for the five of us.

We were picked up from our hotel and taken to breakfast at a restaurant overlooking Mt. Batur volcano. It was an incredible view. You get a panoramic view of the black lava ash draped on one side of the volcano from the last eruption in 1963 and at the foot of the volcano, the houses and villages that have been rebuilt since then. You see where the lake meets land and how close the volcano and villages are to water.

Our guide shared with us information about Balinese culture and history, as well as Bali's issues and concerns, mainly environmental protection and income generation. “We are a culture of animism,” he said, “We believe spirits live in everything and we must make offerings to them so the good spirits protect us and ensure we live in harmony and peace.” He asked how our visit to Bali has been so far and whether we have any complaints. He said it’s important to the Balinese to know that visitors have been treated well. It’s a matter of pride, and Indonesia, especially Bali relies on tourism for income.

As part of the tour, we visited a coffee plantation. It was an incredible outfit. I tasted lemongrass tea, ginseng coffee, and hot chocolate – the best I’ve ever had anywhere. We were also given Balinese fruit to sample. By now, I’ve had their fruit, though I still can’t pronounce their names. But the fruit they offered on this plantation were sweeter and juicer than any I’ve had.

The ride continued through breathtakingly beautiful scenery. In villages, children in uniforms on their way home from school gave us high fives as we rode by. It was a game to them, to see how many slaps on the hand they get, and a test of my balance and maneuvering skills to ride single-handed and do the high five at the same time.

Even adults look up from their work and call out hello to us. The men are usually digging ditches, or repairing a building, or manning a shop. The women are usually walking to the rice fields with baskets on their heads, or they are making bamboo mats at the side of their house.

Even though it was supposedly a downhill ride, the tour went downhill for about one and a half hours. The last hour was mostly uphill, though seemingly just slight inclines. But after half an hour of the uphill riding, I was dripping with sweat, my breathing in heaves, my face flushed and bright red, and I was more off balance than usual. A couple of times, I looked ahead and saw blurry. So I stopped riding for fear of collapsing, so glad the vans were following.

Ten minutes later, one of the Danish riders got picked up. Ten minutes after that, The Man got picked up. The driver said, “Don’t worry, you did well. Half of the people don’t finish. The Chinese and Japanese always stop when the incline starts. Only the Dutch always finish.” He was right about that. The two who finished was the Danish man and the Dutch woman, both much younger than The Man and me, just so you know.

We were taken to a restaurant and served the best food I have had so far in Indonesia. Despite stopping the ride early, I felt great, and fit, because it was really good exercise, and the whole experience was so positive. I didn't mind being a tourist, not only because the Balinese are treating us well, but because I know that I contribute to Bali's economy when I go to restaurants, buy souvenirs, stay at hotels. The Balinese provide services with such class and good nature that I don't feel I am exploiting them. It is straight fee for service with pride.

Dolphins And A Deal

On Sunday, we were up at 5:30 am and got dressed. Ronny walked out of the sea at 6:00 and came to get us. He took us to the beach where a catamaran was waiting. For the next hour and a half, we were dolphin spotting. There were lots of dolphins in the Bali Sea near Lovina. Apparently, between 6:00 and 8:00 every morning, they swim past this part of the water on their way somewhere. Or maybe this is their morning stomping ground where they come to watch tourists sit in catamarans.

We saw many fins and several jumped out of the water to the glee and applause of watchers in the boats.

Ronny must be an experienced dolphin spotter. Every time he went after a school of dolphins, he got us right where the dolphins would swim beside us. I couldn’t help but feel we were watching something sacred.

When the dolphins ended their swim in the area, we went closer to shore. We were given masks and snorkels. I have never done snorkeling and I now see the pleasure in it. I saw fish and coral I have never seen before. Funny that when I took off the goggles and tried to look in the water, I couldn’t see a thing. I wouldn’t have thought there was any fish around me. But with the goggles on, there they were! All colours and sizes, with trims and spots and stripes.

Ronny threw some fish biscuits in the water to draw the fish near. I took some to offer to the fish and they came and nibbled from my hand. When I ran out of biscuit, I extended my hand in the water and held it still. Some fish came and nipped at it. Good thing these fish are no more than 8 inches long and have small mouths; they have sharp teeth.

It’s true that fish swim into the folds of coral where they hide and find food. Fish needs make so much more sense now. I must find coral for my fish tank. There were large, beautiful, multi-coloured fish also. They wisely stayed near the bottom of the sea, far away from us. We must have looked like huge fish with our flippers.

Then we went back to the hotel for breakfast, after which I had my third massage in Bali.

This one took place outside in the garden, which fronted the beach. It felt like I had walked into a marketer’s fantasy. The setting was absolutely gorgeous. Ah, but the massage only so so. Not that it was bad. I like having hands rub my body now. But the masseuse was not professionally trained to know where the muscles in the body naturally tighten and what techniques to use to relieve the tension.

And she plied me with oil, which she relied on to glide her hands over my body rather than use pressure. Later, she showed me the oil she was using. It was cooking oil, she said proudly, that she made herself! Good thing it was overcast for most of the day, otherwise, I wonder if I would have started to fry in the Indonesian sun. But I have no real complaints for a $5 massage that lasted an hour.

Kedak came to get us at noon. We stopped off at a waterfall where we could go swimming. I went swimming that is. I don’t think I can ever swim in a pool again. The Man entered negotiations with our guide’s grandmother to buy spices that she collected from the forest. He has gotten very good at it, making the old woman laugh much in the process. So this is how it went down. The start price was 150,000 Rp (about $15) for a chain of spices. The Man counter offered with 30,000 Rp for one. The deal ended with The Man buying two chains for 120,000 Rp ($12). How crazy was that?

Then we visited a temple on the water where I had my portrait done. Make me thinner I said. I think the artist made a Disney character that sort of looked like me. But the temple was beautiful. It was my favourite temple of all that we’ve seen. For one thing, it sits about 30 feet from shore. To get to the temple, you had to walk across the waist deep water, so you really must want to make the offering to get wet doing it.

After that, we went back to the hotel to crash, because in the morning, we are getting picked up at 7 am for a cycling tour.

Party Crashing And Soaking In It

Yesterday, we went up to Lovina in North Bali. I wanted to see what non-tourist Bali is like. Besides, a woman at the hotel told us about the waterfalls, hot spring bath, and dolphin sighting in Lovina.

So Kedak picked us up at 9 am and off we went for an overnight trip. I think we stopped at a temple first. But it was the visit to rice fields that I remember. Sure the view was spectacular, with terraced rice paddies stretching across hills providing sculpted relief to the landscape. But it was what happened during this visit that was fun.

When we got to the top of the hill where the view was best, many jeeps were parked by a restaurant. The restaurant courtyard was full of tourists. The Man made his way past all the parked cars and hawkers to inside the restaurant patio, which overlooked the rice paddies. I made my way there too and was met by The Man in the crowded parking lot, holding a Moretti beer. An Italian beer? I thought he was into Bintang, the Indonesian beer. We made our way to the patio and took photos.

I saw servers standing at a table behind me. They were taking beer orders. On the table were baskets of native fruit. People seemed to just walk up and take the fruit. So I did too. The Man was on his second beer. He turned to a woman with a video camera and asked her to film us. She said, No, you're not part of our tour.

Then someone shouted, I am sure it was, Let's go, in Italian. All the tourists started moving toward their cars. I said to The Man, Did you pay for the beer? He didn't answer me. I understood. And what would the restaurant do with all the leftover fruit anyway? So I took two for our driver. The Man took my arm and jostled us through the crowd. At one point, he threw up his hands and shouted, Let's go, in Italian. Everyone made their way to the parked cars in the parking lot and out on the road. We walked pass all the parked cars and kept going. I noticed all the cars had numbers on them, and a Birra Moretti Zero poster taped on the hood or trunk.

This was some kind of Moretti beer party. And just to prove us right, along the road, there were Birra Moretti Rally signs at certain junctions to direct cars to some place. Ha ha, we had crashed a private beer party!

After, we went to the most spectacular waterfall I have ever seen. An Australian couple was also there. We wanted to get really close to the falls but it was impossible. I got soaking wet just standing ankle deep in the pool where the water collected. But the Australian couple tried to go in further. Kedak said, "This is not a good place to swim. The locals don't swim here and I don't know if the spirit of the water is good or bad. You must respect the water." Sometimes Kedak says things that are right out of a movie. We didn't swim there.

Kedak took us to a hot springs bath next. The water is naturally warmed by the volcano it passes. The hot springs staff drain the water every night and the pool fills again by morning. Spouts come out of walls and warm water pour out to massage your back and shoulders. It was superb.

There were mostly young people soaking in the hot springs bath. I often think I am modestly dressed, especially when swimming. I wear a one-piece bathing suit that covers the chest and bum. What I notice is, most women in Indonesia don't swim in their bathing suits. I know they are wearing bikinis though because I see the outlines of string ones under their wet clothes. It's just that they wear a t-shirt and shorts over their bikinis. Boy, did I feel like a big, flaunting foreigner.

I am sure we went to a couple more places during the day, but I can't remember them right now. We spent the night at a hotel right on the beach. It was a beautiful place, with gardens everywhere. I wanted to observe Earth Hour, but I need not have worried about not turning the lights out. I was asleep by 8 pm.

Buddha in Ubud

Ubud is a town in Bali. Our guide book says it and Kuta are the duopoly of Bali. We wanted to go there to see some Balinese performances and to see what there is to see. So we hired a driver, Kedak, who also served as our guide.

What Kedak probably hadn't counted on was The Man's search for Buddha. Buddha statues. In bronze. To add to his growing collection of little Buddha statues. I too found Buddha, in my own way, especially after the amazing massage we had.

The Balinese are a gentle, respectful people. They believe in magic. Which partly explains why they continuously make offerings to their gods three times a day, and why every home has its own temple, every village its own village temple, and every town a public temple. As Kedak explained, every Balinese has at least three temples. I know, they are Hindu temples. But I saw Buddha in the Balinese's simple way of living and their practice of wanting to preserve their way of life.

Our first stop to Ubud was at a temple where a performance of Barong and Kris took place. For some reason, this dance can only be performed in the morning. If you allow for the unfamiliar, the music and dance were spectacular. Otherwise, they could be confusing and annoying the way Asian music an be. It was hard to follow the story on stage, but that's why they handed out a synopsis of the performance as you enter. Barong and Kris are the perpetual fight of good versus evil. Or as Kedak said, white magic versus dark magic.

The elaborate makeup and costumes are very oriental. The postures and poses very Indonesian. Incorporated in the Barong and Kris dance was a Legong dance. Two women move, using their bodies as well as their eyes, fingers, and toes to draw your attention to their poses. It was very much like Indian classical dance.

Our second stop was at a batik shop. The owners cleverly installed women on the veranda of their property, hand-painting colours on good quality cotton. Designer draw patterns on white cotton, then these women draw colour and wax on the patterns. The colouring and waxing are repeated for each colour used. In the end, you get the batik fabric so popular in Indonesia. But these are not mass-produced factory batik. They are handcrafted by artisans. The colours seep through both sides of the fabric and don't fade. A competent batik artisan produces about one metre of fabric a day.

You have to respect the slow, patient process of careful work to make beautiful fabric. The more of these fabric I see, the more I like them. I have an urge to buy rolls and rolls of batik. But they are not cheap. A factory-made sarong costs about $5 on the beach. These cost about $20. A table cloth costs $250.

Our next stop was a typical Balinese home. The owners opened it to the public for donations. The home was a spread of sleeping houses, garden, temple, well, and open viewing room for the dead. There are few of these homes left. Once, only the rich could afford a large compound like this. But now, the rich choose to live in high rise condos in Jakarta. These Balinese homes now belong to the lucky poor.

Next, we stopped at a Hindu temple built in 944. The temple is still in use. To go in, men and women must allow the temple staff to strap a blue sarong on you as a sign of respect to the culture and the gods.

Then we went to the Monkey Forest. It really was a monkey forest. Macaque monkeys were everywhere and they owned the forest. I sat down at one point and two baby monkeys climbed up my leg, refusing to let go of my pants. Maybe it was because my pants were yellow and they mistook them for giant bananas.

After lunch, we went to the Antonio Blanco Renaissance Museum. Antonio Blanco was a Spanish painter who went to Bali in the 1950's and married a Balinese dancer. Photographs of his grandchildren show they are stunningly beautiful Eurasians. The museum houses Blanco's paintings, a mix of European technique and style applied to Indonesian themes and motifs.

What an amazing way to visit paintings. On entering, a guard issued us tickets in a folder and places two fresh frangipani flowers on the folder. As we entered the garden, a women hit a wooden gong twice to announce our arrival. Once inside the garden, a server came with a tray to serve us a welcome drink of ice tea. The garden was beautiful, with parrots in trees and roosters on the lawn. And somewhere in the gallery, there is a photograph of Blanco with Michael Jackson. Blanco is the Salvador Dali of Bali.

After this, we went to a spa for a massage to soothe our tired muscles and pains sustained from two days of swimming and surfing. I liked that at reception, they offered us additional services. But when we said we only had two hours, they said a one-hour massage was enough because after the massage, we would go through the saunas and shower and the whole thing would already be one and a half hours. No rushing here. I can't imagine in Toronto they wouldn't try to sell you more services than you had time for. It's not their problem that you are short on time.

They were true to their word. We started off with a herbal tea, then a wonderful massage. After, we were put in a dry sauna, then into a steam bath, then into a cold whirl pool, where they served us ginger tea. Then we took a shower to rinse everything off. I felt all smooth and clean. As I packed my things to go, The Man said, "Can you slow down. You are a whirl wind of movements beside me." I said, "I feel energetic because I asked for the energizing massage oil. Which oil did you have?" He didn't know, and he was too mellow to care. By the time we left, we had been there for one hour and 45 minutes. All that for $15 per person.

Then we went to a kecak dance performance. The kecak is a religious dance that includes a real holy man. The lead female dancers have to be real virgins. The story and dancing is done to choral chanting - acapella - by a group of shirtless men with red flowers in their hair. I don't know if shadow puppets mimic the kecak dance movements or whether these dancers mimic shadow puppets, but they moved slowly, with intention. I would have believed they were beautiful puppets.

To end the night, we had dinner at a seafood grill. You choose your seafood and they grill it while you wait at your table right on the beach, with sand under your feet and waves crashing a few feet in front of you. It was an amazing place to end the evening.

Kedak coached us on etiquette and expectation each time we went to a new place. He said several times, the Balinese must respect their religion, their culture, and people. Sometimes you don't have time to do everything right, but that's okay. You just need to do what you can. So forgiving of yourself and generous toward others. Is that not the living Buddha way?

Attachments

Well, The Man is so attached to his motor scooter he won't give it up. He's extended its rental for I don't know how long. He likes scooting around in it, even though I can't stop shrieking every time he makes a turn or speeds up.

I didn't go to the gym today. When The Man went surfing, I browsed in the surf shop and bought a surf shirt and surf shorts. The shirt is a short-sleeve lycra T that says Rip Curl Australia on the front. Good enough.

But I didn't join the surfing lesson either. First, I swam in the ocean. Wave pools have nothing on the real thing. The crashing white waves beckoned and I saw some kids with a short board doing body surfing. I went back into the surf shop and asked to rent one. They said I am looking for a boogie board and I can only rent one on the beach from one of the vendor.

So I got me a boogie board and tried to body surf. I didn't know what you're supposed to do with it so I used it as a float. And while testing out my new toy, I realized I love my surf shirt. It is a marvelous piece of technology that protects me from the sun while I abandon myself to the waves. The short, not so much. They fall off me. But still, they provide good coverage and I am sure they wouldn't fall off if the waves weren't crashing into me, and if I developed a more refined waist to hold them up.

After a while, I asked a blond boy how to work the boogie board. I was sure he was Australian. He told me how to boogie in his Australian accent, then his friend demonstrated. What a difference that made. I caught two waves and rode them in! I definitely had the urge to stand up on the short board each time I caught a wave. That's how surfing must've started.

The Man didn't do badly either. I saw him get up on the surf board a few times. I don't think he's been able to manage that in past attempts.

Okay, I could be a water rat, and I love my surf shirt. The Man loves his scooter and he surfs. Maybe we'll move to California and I'll be surfer girl and he'll be scooter dude. Will The Boy pretend he doesn't know us?

Discovery Of Squash

On the motor scooter, we become part of the gnat population, swarming in traffic, darting between cars, moving faster than cars or pedestrians.

We will be in Seminyak for at least two more days. The Man has signed up for surfing lessons. While he surfs, I will be across the street at a gym. We checked it all out today and made the arrangements.

It's been so hot, I've been yearning for lemonade. But they don't seem to serve that here, so I keep getting lemon ice tea. The good thing is, they brew the tea fresh. No powdered drink here. I know because the tea is stronger, sometimes it's still hot under the ice, and different restaurants use different teas. At the beach today, I noticed on the menu something called "squash", in lemon or orange flavour. I asked what that is. The waitress told me it's pressed lemon mixed with soda water and sugar. Shit. Is that a lemonade or what? It was delicious.

Old People On Bike

The first thing I noticed upon landing in Bali was the air was fragrant and there are no tall buildings. The second thing was the many motorbikes and scooters darting around, in and out of traffic, driven by young people, old people, but mostly young women. I love that. But traffic here is chaotic and noisy. I thought unkindly that first day, it must be the Hindu influence.

But I could be excused from having this thought because the third thing I noticed were the many Hindu god icons parked everywhere. The little statues creep me out with their painted eyeliners and white eyeballs. They leer at you from every corner, unexpected nooks, and pop up in the middle of a flower bed. The large statues glare down from high above traffic. They have wild, facial expressions, with wild, exaggerated, impossible body movements. They look more like a frozen frame from an action flick than statues.

In Bali, rituals are part of everyday life. On our walk along the ocean front, we came upon a ceremony for a three-month old baby. Every morning and evening, little trays of folded banana leaves that contain flowers and incense are offered to the gods for protection. They are everywhere - on steps, on lawns, under trees, in the middle of the sidewalk, in front of an entrance, on a shrine, beside a fire hydrant. I see the offerings made usually by a women carrying a bamboo tray of offerings. She walks around the various spots of her property, puts a dish in place, and lights the incense. A simple act, as if she's walking around lighting the candle at designated spots.

After a day of bed rest yesterday (I had a minor bout of food poisoning), The Man decided to join the young and fold into the Balinese culture. He rented a motor scooter. With my helmet and sore stomach, I mounted in the seat behind him. As soon as we left the hotel, The Man veered the bike in front of an oncoming taxi. Good thing the roads are so narrow that cars move slowly. The driver seemed surprised to see us on a motor bike. Maybe we had been one of his fares. He gave us a warm smile and waited for The Man to adjust the bike and get in the right lane.

No more near-death incidents after that. We drove into the main road and merged with traffic and noise. Sometimes we sped up, sometimes we swung out to pass a parked car, sometimes cars and bikes passed us. Most of the time, I tried to stifle my screams and anticipate speed bumps that further jostled my already sore stomach. I admit when we were alone on a stretch of road and The Man picked up speed, it was exhilarating.

At 6:30 pm, late for our dinner reservation, armed with purchases, and soaked in sweat, we rolled into the parking lot of La Lucciola to eat and watch the sun set. The guards at the restaurant watched us dismount, trying not to fall into the canal fronting the restaurant, and warmly waved us into the restaurant.

That ride must have wakened my senses. I noticed that many of the Balinese young men are beautiful. They have warm, warm smiles and are so gracious. I love that at the restaurant, the waiters tuck flowers behind their ears. So normal.

Morning Of The World

One of the guide books we found at the hotel calls Bali "morning of the world". The good thing is, The Man is lying on the bed with his headphones on, singing along with the Loving Spoonfuls. I call out for him to stop his wailing for fear of waking the neighbours. It's way past midnight. But he does not hear me. Too bad I don't have a tape recorder.

We arrived in Bali yesterday. It is just as hot and humid here as in Jakarta. People tell me this is the cold season. How can that be when the temperature is 28C and 100% humidity? We landed in Kuta and a car took us to Seminyak. The hotel we are in is a charming, rustic, clean villa with a swimming pool in the courtyard. Apparently, the owner of this hotel is Dutch. His wife stays in Bali to run the hotel while he drums up business back home. That explain why there are so many retired Dutch couples here, who stay for one to six months at the hotel.

We are two minutes from the Indian ocean. Frangipani trees with fragrant flowers are everywhere. The flowers are like a gift from the gods to Bali. People collect the flowers and put them in little dishes of water, tuck them in their hair, lay them on a window ledge, decorate the breakfast table. There is a refined sense of simplicity and elegance everywhere. I can hear years from now, people lamenting the days long gone when frangipani flowers covered the ground and scented the air.

This morning, we took a walk along the beach, turned up a road, and walked on the narrow, winding street. But every opening from this lane leads to a restaurant, gallery, spa, or beautiful resort, and even a paddy field. We visited a resort that was right out of the pages of Architectural Digest, at only $180 a night. Our hotel is only $25 a night, which includes airport transportation, daily cleaning, free remote internet access, and daily breakfast. But I digress.

Along the street, we came upon a spa that looked clean and had a wide front. We stopped to look at their services. Immediately, a woman came out to solicit us, persuading us that we really needed a massage. We went in and were rewarded with a one-hour massage each, in the same room. I objected to undressing in front of The Man and was immediately offered a separate room. But it wasn't The Man I objected to, it was the presence of strangers. The two masseuses left the room to give us privacy. Who knew I was so uptight? But I have decided I must have several massages before leaving Bali.

Then in rained and thundered the rest of the day. In this rain, we went to dinner at an Italian restaurant H recommended. It is a gorgeous place, sitting in the middle of nowhere, facing the ocean. Too bad the food isn't better. But here too, the view is well worth the price of admission. We had missed the sunset because of the rain. The Man liked the restaurant so much we made reservations to come back for dinner tomorrow. It's his birthday.

Eat, Shop, Eat

The hotel is full of mostly Asian, probably Indonesian, guests. The staff is polite and subservient, reminiscent of service staff from the 50's I've seen in movies and on TV. They get out of your way when you walk by. The rooms are nicely furnished and comfortable, luxurious even. The Man has no complaints. I do. Inside the hotel room, I could be anywhere. If you told me I was in Boston, or Toronto, there would be nothing in the room to contradict that. I didn't travel 23 hours to not leave home.

I am happy to see H, The Man's friend and colleague from Kabul, still here. He's staying for an extra few days of vacation. The weather is hot and humid, hotter and more humid than Toronto. The rain comes sporadically to cool things down.

My first day in Jakarta started with a sumptuous breakfast at the hotel buffet. There was cranberry, celery, carrot, guava, tomato, and orange juice at the juice bar - all the juices you need to make your own cleansing tonic. There were the requisite breads, yogurt, bacon, sausage, potato, and eggs cooked to your liking, as well as a cold salad bar, and an array of rice, noodles, soups, and meats.

As a child in Hong Kong, I ate rice and meat for breakfast, so I assume a full meal of staples first thing in the morning is an East Asian tradition. But I have outgrown the ability to manage a heavy stomach so early, so I opted for mostly fruit and chocolate croissant! I tried out a new fruit. It has a soft yellow shell, with pitted translucent flesh inside that scoops out with a spoon, sweet and tart at the same time.

Then we went shopping, with H as our leader. I wanted to look for a piece of luggage with a lock to replace the 25-year-old falling at the seam vinyl bag that I brought. I got completely overwhelmed by the mall. I believe we visited only a small section of a 4-storey-10-building complex that so sold mostly electronics and pirated DVDs and computer software. The pirating industry thrives here, though competition is stiff. How do the locals decide where to make their purchase when in every shop, the products and prices are the same?

I didn't find a suitcase I liked. But I bought a 2-gig memory card and an extra battery for my camera, both for the ridiculous price of $50 tax included. To put things in perspective, my current memory card is 250 mb and I think I paid the discounted price of $79 plus tax at Future Shop two years ago.

We then went to the Jakarta harbour when many sailing ships parked, waiting to transport illegal timber and concrete across the waters. A guide appeared out of nowhere and walked us along the harbour, through some of the streets, and into a marine museum, where we saw a huge canoe.

Then we went to Cafe Batavia. Batavia is the old name for Jakarta. I love the Cafe Batavia. Inside, we went back in time to the 30's. It's all art deco - look, feel, staff, and service. Hotel staff in green uniforms cleaned walls and baseboards, dusted picture frames, swept and mopped the red teak floors. At the Churchill Bar upstairs, uninformed bartenders mixed drinks and poured concoctions beside large basins of arranged cut flowers.

Just for contrast, on the way home, we went to an upscale mall inside the Grand Hyatt hotel. This mall is a secret transporter. I stepped through the doors and I was immediately home. There was The Body Shop, L'Occitane, Zara, Marks and Spencer, and other Yorkdale-type shops in a Yorkdale-kind setting. Very nice and very meh, though I did find a new pair of sunglasses to replace the pair I brought. The arm that I kept gluing back on snapped again and given the glue guck that has accumulated at the joint, I abandoned my old shades in the waste basket of Le Meridien hotel. Very painful.

After some rest, we met H's friend, F, for dinner at the Lara Djonggrang restaurant, a high-end Indonesian eatery. The place is a winding spread of rooms. You choose which room you want to experience your dinner in. F suggested we order three dinner platters to sample food from different regions of Indonesia. It was good food, though when the different regions ended up on the same plate at the same time in front of me, I could not distinguish the unique tastes from each area, despite the banana leaf wraps and coconut flavouring. But that's okay. Here, the dining experience is as much about the atmosphere as the food and my dinner companions more than made up for the saucy and conflicting fare reminiscent of Indian cooking. And you know about my non-relationship with Indian food. I have to try harder not to let this bias interfere with my enjoyment of the food here, despite the obvious Indian influence.

After dinner, we went to the Lan Na Thai for drinks and coffee. The boys had drinks, I had coffee. And what coffee it was! Aromatic with presence and bite, a real coffee. It is what coffee should be. I can never accept brown water from Second Cup from now on.

I confess I think people must have thought I was a prostitute in this bar. I commented to F that Indonesian women are beautiful and hot. He said many of them are prostitutes. How would he know? And yes, the other women could have been just different versions of me for being in Jakarta with white male companions, and yes, I think they are prostitutes because they are young and beautiful and fashionable dressed and the men they are with hug them and kiss them. No wait, maybe no one thinks I am a prostitute after all.

H has spent much time in Indonesia and speaks Bahasa fluently. I noticed that each time we got into a taxi, the driver turned to me first, as if expecting me to talk. I look the part after all. But H issues the directions and I am clued out as to what they say and where we go. F currently lives in Jakarta. He too speaks fluent Bahasa. I marvel again at the remarkable life paths these men have taken that now enable them to speak at least three languages fluently: German, English, and Bahasa.

I like Jakarta. It is lush, green and opulent. Signs of poverty are almost imperceptible. It is a consumer's dream city. But I am not sure what else people do here. I asked F this. He said they eat, shop, eat. I've done that now. Let's move on.

Jakarta

I am at Le Meridien hotel in Jakarta tonight. The city looks beautiful at night. That is, it is a developed city without the dirt, rubble, and stench of New Delhi. On the way into the hotel, we and the taxi did get scanned. Security is visible as there uniformed soldiers in the street, though they seem to be visiting with each other more than guarding anything.

The road coming in from the airport was not crowded. That is, it seemed like a normal flow of traffic without chaos and congestion, given Jakarta is the second or third most populated city in the world. Apparently, it's Muslim new year this weekend and a lot of people are away. The Man says the roads can be congested even at 3:00 am.

It's so strange to meet The Man here, like we're both out of context. I think I haven't slept for 24 hours or more. It's 12:30 am Friday. If I go to sleep now, I may wake up like it's a normal day tomorrow and not suffer jet lag.

Coming And Going

Right now, my right foot is killing me. I bought a new pair of shoes for this trip to Indonesia. Comfort was paramount. I bought a pair of Hush Puppies. When I put them on before leaving home, I noticed my right shoe was tight. Thinking it would loosen up with wear, I went to the aiport in them. As my feet swelled during the 15 hour flight to Hong Kong, my right shoe grew tighter and tighter. I took off my shoe to examine it. To my horror, my right shoe was size 6.5. My left shoe was size 8. That stupid sales lady put two different sizes in my shoe box! Grr...

It's been so busy the last three weeks I didn't think I would get all my things together for Indonesia. But I stayed up to 1:30 am and was ready. Good thing too. I woke up at 4:30 am and said to myself, I don't have to get up till 5:00 since the taxi doesn't come till 6:00. I swear, 5 minutes later, a knock came at the door and I looked at the clock to see the time was 5:58. Ugh. A splash to wake up. No shower, no make up. Just dressed, grabbed my things, woke The Boy up to say goodbye, and ran into the taxi, all within 10 minutes.

The flight was grueling. 15 hours. The route was not across Canada as I thought, but over Europe and Asia.

I am now technically in Hong Kong, city of my birth. It's only the airport, but it looks very familiar. I think this airport looks just like the airport in New Delhi. But internet access is free, though they have a sign asking users to limit their time to 15 minutes on the computers. I exchanged some money to buy a bottle of water. Then I went into the smoking lounge. I know I sound like a smoker, but I am not. I just wanted to see the smoking lounge because from the escalator, I saw the smoking lounge was a room with frosted windows. But the room was fogged up with smoke. If I were a smoker, I wouldn't have to light a cigarette. Just take a few deep breaths in that room to get my nicotine fix.

Okay, maybe my 15 minutes are up. People are waiting to use the internet.

The Straw

Now that I have stopped fuming, I can talk about this.

The Boy has many freedoms and privileges. With these privileges come responsibility. Sometimes, he doesn't follow through on his responsibilities and obligations. That's when I get angry and disappointed.

Getting to school on time, handing in homework, carrying out his chores around the house are ongoing battles. Once in while, he needs to do what I ask, just because I say so. On my part, I give him support and perks so he can do the things he wants and enjoy time with his friends.

This March break, he planned a trip to Montreal with friends. I asked for details of the plan, such as when he's leaving, how, where he wants to stay, then we can talk about a budget. He kept saying he will give me all that information. The day before departure, I still had nothing.

That day, I had also invited a friend home for dinner. I asked The Boy to be home for that dinner and reminded him three times in as many days. On the day of the dinner, I phoned him at 6:00 pm to ask him to bring dessert home. He was at a cafe with friends. He asked if he could stay till 9:00. I said no, he needed to be home by 7:00. He said fine.

My friend arrived. We waited till 8:30. The Boy did not show up. I decided we would eat without him. The Boy came in at 9:15 to join us.

After my friend left, I told The boy I was disappointed he hadn't come home like I asked him to. He said, "I asked you if I could come home at 9:00 and you denied me that."

"Right. So why didn't you come home on time?"

"I don't know. I didn't feel like it. What's the big deal?"

"You didn't feel like it because it wasn't important to you. Your not coming home was disrespectful and irresponsible. You didn't do what I asked despite all my reminders, despite saying you would be home, because you didn't feel like it, because you weren't gaining anything by it. You were being selfish. I am very disappointed."

Half an hour later, he said, "Mom, about that money you're supposed to give me for Montreal. Can I have it now because I'm leaving tomorrow."

"You have not given me any information on your trip. After tonight, I don't feel like supporting you in what you want."

He objected with, Then I am not going to download the photos from your camera to the computer. Everything for the trip is booked. My friend will hate you. You are going back on your word. You have to pay the hotel cancellation fee of $250.

I said, I am not paying for anything. I am not interested in your trip. Right now, I don't feel like supporting what you do because you don't support what I do. You can still go to Montreal, just don't expect any help from me. And now, I don't want to talk to you about Montreal any more.

He phoned The Man in Indonesia for help. I explained the situation to The Man, and added, The Boy never has consequences for his actions. Is that what you want for him? It's not that he missed dinner. That was just one thing in a long series of disrespectful and belligerent behaviour and attitude. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Maybe it's because The Man saw my point and remembered how difficult The Boy can be, maybe it's because he couldn't help The Boy from Indonesia anyway, maybe it's because he didn't want to piss me off and cause me to cancel my trip to Indonesia, but The Man supported me in my decision not to support The Boy.

The Boy balked, not believing his father would not rescue him from his evil mother. I want to phone Dad back, he said. You incur any long distance charges on your cell phone and I will cut it off, I said slowly and evenly. He tried to apologize. I said it was too late.

So. The Boy cancelled his trip to Montreal. Since then, he's been diligent in telling me where he is and what he's doing. Today, I asked him what he's doing about the hotel cancellation fee, then changed my mind about wanting to know, so I said, Never mind, I am sure you will figure it out. He said, The cancellation fee is $110, not $250. I will pay for most of it, I have enough.

Has The Boy learned anything? I hope he has learned that he can handle problems when they come up, though I don't know. I hope he will be more responsible and responsive to his mother from now on. He is singing upstairs.

Parents often are not sure of how to handle their teens and don't feel good about being tough on them. I certainly didn't feel good. But I am glad I was firm on my resolve. I am going to count on the good qualities in our mother-son relationship to carry us over this rough patch. I am amazed that all this went down without me doing any yelling or screaming.

We Came So Close!

Two days ago, the forecast called for up to 40 cm of snow to fall on the city over the next 36 hours. It was to be the biggest snow storm of the year. Going into the storm with 176.8 cm of snow so far this winter, we were poised to break the 1938-39 record of 207 cm and take up the mantle as the snowiest winter on record in Toronto.

We were so close. After two days, 25 cm of snow fell, accompanied by sub-zero temperatures and gusty, howling winds, making walking a strenuous effort, navigating around snow mounds and buried cars, an almost impossible task because you can't see more than a few feet in front of you. It was certainly the stormiest night of the year.

What did we do on this stormy night? We went out to dinner.

During the day, a valve from our hot water tank started leaking, soaking through part of our carpetted basement. Between mopping up the water and getting someone in to fix it, I was on the phone making dates for next week. I also dug my way out to the shed, twice, in the middle of the storm to look for tools and parts to fix a table. Finally, I ran outside to see if my neighbours had what I needed.

There they were, three of them, leaning on their shovels, exchanging street gossip. They all had snowy eyebrows and lashes, and a white helmet from the snow collected on their hats. I joined them, producing my table part to see if they had what I was looking for.

Bonnie said, "Jerry across the street could fix that for you. He would love to do it because he has nothing to do. But he probably can't get into his shed right now." We look across at Jerry's house and could see his shed through the driveway. He's never dug his way to his shed this winter. A field of snow was pressed against the shed doors, piling more than half way up the shed.

Andy said, "We're just getting ready to go to the hardware store so we'll take your part with us and get what you need."

"You are braving this weather?"

"Yeah, isn't it great? The perfect day to walked around snuggled up in a warm coat. Want to come?" said his wife, Lucia. I wanted to go, but I was also cleaning the house.

Then John said, "Anyone feel like going for steak down at D-Ganz for dinner?"

We all said, "Yes!"

So on their way to the hardware store, Andy and Lucia stopped by D-Ganz to book a table, and at 5:45, ten of us, with kids in tow, trooped down the street to the restaurant. John's wife, Caitlin, told us today was John's birthday and we were taking part in the dinner celebration. I told John I was honoured he chose to have his birthday dinner with us.

The small restaurant was full! In addition to us, there were two tables of sixes, and a table for two. All the tables in the restaurant were used up. The food presentation and quality of food had improved much since I was last there more than a year ago. Back then, the restaurant served inexpensive, good steak. But the menu, taste, and smell was Greek greasy spoon based.

But tonight, the salad contained mixed greens, grape tomatoes, and sweet onions in a subtle vinegrette, not the knife-cut iceberg lettuce smothered in oil, olives, feta, and bottled dressing of the year before. The steaks were still tender and charred just right, no need for HP sauce, and at $12.95 for an 8-oz New York cut, a real bargain. Niece said, Steak is one of my favourite foods.

Even the vegetables were done well. Strands of tender asparagus laced across glazed carrots and roasted potatoes. A far cry from the near mush boiled and greasy potato lumps of last year.

After dinner, we trudged back home across the No Frills parking lot against the wind and snow. I understand why people get lost in the snow now. We literally fought the weather. John and I stayed a bit behind, fumbling with our cigarettes. Ahead, you can see our group of adults and small kids wrapped tight in their coats, heads down, bodies bent, leaning into the wind, their bodies striking a perpendicular cut into the furious, slanting, slamming snow.

It was amazing. The moment we set foot on our street, we ran into neighbours going out for a walk or coming home from somewhere. We exchanged hellos as we made our way up the street. Then we stomped into John's house and collapsed into his armchairs and sofas, Lucia and I panting and feeling for our faces while Caitlin served us tea and dessert.

The Globe and Mail today said years from now, we will be able to tell our grandchildren how we survived that fierce snow storm of 2008. I will, because I trekked the snow the night of the big storm and had cake with friends.

Money Makes The World Go Around, Part 1

Last week, the titles in some financial stories in the Globe went like this:

TD profit tops $1-billion mark
Talisman profit hits $2.08-billion record for the year
Rogue wheat trader loses $141-million
CIBC swings to loss on C$3.38 billion in charges
and audaciously, just "$250-billion".

These guys fiddle with money in the millions and billions. The Man spends money in the thousands. Meanwhile, I try to balance our home budget in dollars and cents.

There is something surreal about the different scales of money that passes through our hands. At the million and billion level, corporations could rescue countries, correct a social ill, alleviate poverty, or improve community programs. But they don't. Most of money goes back to owners and investors. But companies with a socially conscious board or owners donate amounts in the thousands to causes that align with their values.

At the thousand level, The Man could take part in Afghanistan's internal economy of bakshis. But he doesn't. He helps build infrastructure in a war-torn country; as a capacity-builder, he trains his staff to acquire new skills and experience; and he provides employment to his staff.

At the dollars and cents level, I could watch TV and eat bonbons all day and night. But I don't. Except chocolate, which is an essential food group and should never be eaten with the distraction of the TV. I maintain the roof over our head, I keep us clothed and fed, and I try to engage our family in positive life experiences. At least those are the rudimentary goals.

My Fat Gene

I had a boyfriend once who said, Every time I am with you, I get hungry and want to eat. Since then, several girlfriends have also said the same thing to me.

Last week, my 6-year-old niece, Kid2, phoned me up for a dessert date. She had to bring her whole family as chaperone, but it was worth it to spend time with her. After our cakes, she suddenly said to her mom, "I'm hungry. I want a ham and cheese sandwich."

The Boy's friends have told me several times, We get fed so well at your house and we eat more.

Now that Niece is staying with me, this is what's happening. On the day she arrived, she said she lost her appetite a few months ago and her weight dropped to 99 lbs. She's 5' 5". That means her BMI was 16.5. A serious case of being underweight. She's under doctor's orders to gain weight. Imagine that.

We've gone shopping a couple of times to stock the house with food she likes. She's concerned about inconveniencing me, the cost of things, and tells me she doesn't want me to buy things we don't normally use in the house. I tell her, If I don't want to buy food she likes, then why did I invite her to stay with me.

She cooks, does the dishes, does her laundry, offers to clean the house, teaches me teen lingo, goes to yoga and pilates classes with me, suggests we go to the Y gym for the day. In short, she is the daughter that The Boy isn't. But he is the best son, often enough. Last night, he even took her to a movie.

I see Niece is eating. She even had Thai food once when we were out. She eats several times a day, like me. Except her portions are much smaller than mine, and she doesn't eat vegetables but raw carrots and peas. Last night, she ate a Hungry Man dinner. I ate Cheetos. The Boy ate at his friend's a few doors up. It's a long story. Tonight, Niece will make chicken curry pasta. She phoned her mom for the recipe. She said, "I get hungry here. I am eating so much."

Seriously, I think being around me makes people hungry. It's my fat gene transmitting its power across the universe.

My Provincial Life

I must lead a pretty spartan life where movie watching and video rental is concerned. The Boy, and even The Man in Afghanistan, watches many more movies than I do. My Niece is staying with me for two weeks. Even in the small town of Port Hope, she watches more movies than I do. Fairly sophisticated ones too.

After our outing one day this week, Niece and I stopped by our local Blockbuster to pick up some movies. I found a movie I didn't mind watching - Seven Swords, a Chinese epic that opened the 2005 Venice Film Festival. But I didn't know how to rent it. I said to Niece, "Psst, I want to watch this movie. What do I do? Do I take this box or the box behind it?"

"You take the one behind it. See, the one with the picture has no disks inside. The one behind is locked so people can't steal the disks inside."

"I don't think it worked like this last time I rented a movie."

"When was that?"

"Five, six year ago."

Niece glared at me, then walked away with a smirk.

At the check out, the cashier looked at my selection and said, "This movie is so sick."

"Really? What's wrong with it?"

"No, I mean, it's sick," he said with both thumbs up. Niece smiled, trying not to react. Then the cashier asked for my membership card.

"Don't you just need my name and phone number?"

"We may have once. But now we need to see your card. When did you last rent a movie from us?"

"Five, six years ago."

He stared at me to see if I was serious. Then he said, "Okay, let me check to see if you are still in our system." I wasn't. So he gave me a new membership card and we rented the movies.

Leaving the store, I realized it was probably more than five, six year ago. It's more like 15 years ago since I rented a movie from them. The last time I went in, I was with The Boy. He was two. He needed to use the bathroom...because he really had to go. I asked the store clerk for the washroom. He wouldn't let The Boy use it. I remember him saying, Our washroom is not for customer use. When I got home, I phoned the store manager and screamed at him. Since then, I have not rented from that store.

The cashier who served me this week was probably a wee toddler himself back then. The clerk who wouldn't let The Boy use the washroom is probably married now and has toddlers of his own. I sure hold a grudge for a long time. I decided to forgive and forget.

I've got the movie home for two days. I haven't watched it yet because I don't know how to use the DVD player. I have to wait till The Boy is home long enough to set me up.

The Leap

It's Leap Day. Some customs allow a woman to make a proposal of marriage to a man on this day and he must accept. If he declines, then he must buy the woman a gown or 12 pairs of gloves.

I wonder what it feels like to know your role as husband can be replaced by a dress or some gloves. No no, stop it, I'm not a man hater. In fact, my doctor tells me my testosterone level is on the high side so I am kind of man-like myself. The gift to a rejected woman is a consolation. But still, if I were a man, I would wonder how strong the woman's attachment to me is, if all it takes is a dress to console her for the absence of my company in her life.

I won't make a marriage proposal today. I'll wait four years to see if The Man is still working out then decide. The minute he slips though, Bam - the next Leap Year, I will either have a new husband or a new dress. So in lieu of a marriage proposal, I am making a leap of faith today.

I believe we will all be fine. The Man and I will enter our twilight years truly golden. The Boy will grow up to be a thoughtful, generous, upstanding, creative, and successful man. We will share many good times with our families and friends. These things will happen because we show up and put in the effort to make them happen.

Cousins By The Dozens

The Man has many cousins. There are so many that once upon a time, one of his cousins hosted an annual party called Cousins By The Dozens, and I swear, hundreds of cousins showed up at his farm for this party each year.

The Man also makes many claims about having ancestors and cousins everywhere. For example, one of Oscar Wilde's lovers may have been an ancestor. I've learned to hold my face still as I mentally roll my eyes when he makes these claims now. But once in a while, a real cousin pops up. Like his cousin in Dubai, with whom he had dinner when he passed through Dubai en route home for Christmas and to whom I send five books last month. Or Jill, who I've never heard of but mysteriously showed up one day in Toronto. She and her husband organized the land reform march in India and that's how I ended up going to India.

So now, our Australian cousin (okay, she and her sister are The Man's cousins, but I consider them my cousins too because I'm like that) told The Man Barack Obama is a cousin! As if The Man needed more encouragement to aggrandize his kinship circuitry. Oh they're very distant cousin. They share a common ancestor somewhere way back.

A part of me is rolling my eyes. But there may also be some truth to this one. Australian Cousin's mother was a professional genealogist and wrote books on the subject. She charted her family tree. I don't think she would have gotten it wrong, though you never know.

Does my side of the family have cousins? Except for the current generation of young cousins, I only know of assholes, wife beaters, and adulterers. But The Boy's generation, there are lots of cousins. I like to think I have influence on the kind of adults these kids grow up to be. In fact, I should start planning cousins by the dozens parties for each side of the family so they'd have a place to reunite with their clan once they start their own families, and a hub of support to go through life with. A farm, my kingdom for a farm!

I Go

Of late, I've had a burst of energy.

I booked my flight to Indonesia. I am going to meet The Man in Jakarta in about three weeks. The Boy stays home.

I stopped making The Boy breakfast and lunch since he doesn't eat them anyway. Guilt be damned.

I finally made sheers for the dining room. They are unobtrusive, even with dragonflies on them. That is, they don't take over the room and provide just the right amount of filter when the sun blazes in late afternoon.

I made pillow shams for my bed and covered a huge canvas above the bed with fabric. Minimal sewing. Lots of glue gun. It's a change of scene for my bedroom. The Boy said my bed now looks like it doesn't belong in our house; it belongs in India. Ah, the Indian influence coming out. I was entertaining the idea my bed looks like it belongs inside a tent out in the desert in the Middle East.

I repaired a friend's wooden antique tables without experience in repairs or knowledge of antiques. I am returning the tables in better shape than even before the tables broke. Aside from re-attaching the table tops to the pedestal legs, the tables no longer wobble.

I re-arranged my kitchen cupboards, then dug my way through the knee-high snow in the backyard and into the shed to drag out things in storage. I throw out some of these things.

I am fearless. I feel creative and productive. I walk on the plane of colours, shades, textures, ideas and representations and call myself an artist.

Quack Quack

Even from afar, The Man makes me laugh like no one can. He phoned this morning to tell me this:

Tasi, my scraggy Afghan Hound, is an old dog. His housemate has been looking for a new home for her so she can live out her days well cared for. Last week, she found a family that lives outside Kabul. The family has lots of space for Tasi to run around in, they have other dogs to keep Tasi company, and these other dogs look well cared for. So Tasi is gone.

But The Man's house guards feel they need an animal on the premises. One morning, as he was leaving the house, the guards approached him.

"We want to get a guard duck. Will you pay for its food?" they asked,

"A guard duck?"

"Yes."

"Duck? Quack quack?"

"Yes, yes, quack quack."

"Sure," he said, thinking guard ducks must an Afghani thing.

The Man went off to his friend's for brunch. There, he saw his housemate and told her about their guards' request for a guard duck.

She said, "You mean a guard dog?"

"No, they said duck. Quack quack."

"Quack quack, woof woof, it's probably the same to them."

Meanwhile, one of the guards went to a nearby ravine and grabbed a stray puppy. When The Man got home, the guards said, "New dog," pointing at the puppy in the yard.

"I thought you were getting a duck."

"No, dog."

So now The Man has the responsibility of providing for the new dog. But here's the thing I'm wondering. Even if the guards really meant "duck", did The Man feel safe knowing a duck was going to guard his house? Maybe that's why I love being with The Man. He makes me laugh at all our foilables and imperfections. In the end, life is still pretty great.

In Someone Else's Boots

Lately, we've been losing ourselves. In the last three months, I've lost my white scarf somewhere. I've lost two knapsacks. How can I lose a knapsack? Two different ones, two different times.

But the funniest loss is when The Boy came home after the weekend's birthday gig. He came home in someone else's boots. He and his friends stayed behind to pack their equipment. When they left, everyone found their boots. The Boy couldn't find his. But there was one pair of brown boots left. They happen to fit The Boy, though a tad small. So we conclude someone had taken his boots by mistake.

It's been five days. You'd think the fellow who took The Boy's boots, or his parents, would have noticed by now. Thing is, the brown boots The Boy came home with are a better quality than the pair he owned. So you'd think the parents would object to this inadvertent trade and contact the Birthday Son to arrange a switch back.

Where are these people?

Greatness

My sister-in-law just became a grandmother. Her daughter gave birth to a girl this weekend. Without undermining the family's joyous occasion, let me have an old fogey moment: I am good with being a great aunt, but I am not ready to be a great-aunt.

This senior nomenclature disconcerts me. There is a physical family generation between me and this newborn. Nothing makes me feel my age more than moving one generation closer to extinction. I didn't do anything to bring this on; this is life happening to you.

I've read that men feel their mortality when they have children. The Man certainly said so when The Boy was born. At the time, I said, Pish posh, I feel vibrantly alive, all powerful and potent, I am a giver of life and now I am going to mold this life. Despite The Man's expressed vulnerability, he turned out to be a great dad. Now it's my turn to feel my age.

I hope my niece feels vibrantly alive, that she has the power to shape her life and that of her daughter's. I hope she draws from the feisty, creative strength within to take care of herself and help her daughter navigate through life. I know, the baby was just born and this is a lot to pay attention to, both mother and baby are so young. But someone has to send wishes their way while they are awe-struck with their immediate needs. I found this poem and wishes for her:

May you feel at home in your body with all its changes and the marks of its experiences.

May you get to know your baby as a person, shaping into an individual you both know and find mysterious.

May you continue to get to know yourself as a mother, shaping into someone who is both her old self and someone completely new.

May you find the time to care for yourself, for your own health and your own goals while you manage the complete responsibility of dependency.

May you sleep with dreams that refresh and calm you for the next day.

May you use your new power of mother love to reach out to the world and change it for the better.

May you have the confidence to speak your mind, act on your convictions and declare your intentions for your life and the planet your children will inherit.

May you be spared heartbreak and suffering in your heart, home and family.

May you discover a sense of newness in each moment in the life of your child and the adventure of parenting.

Freed, Freed For Now

With so much media and home attention on Afghanistan recently, I wasn't aware Kosovo was so close to seceding from Serbia. Today, the Republic of Kosovo declared itself an independent nation, making it the newest country in the world. Serbia and Russia object. Will another war erupt, or will Serbia and Kosovo be like China and Taiwan?

While the Kosovites (is that what they are now?) taste their new freedom today, our street is also being liberated. A city crew has come to remove the snow piles on our curbs. We lost a few parking spots to these hills. My neighbours and I say to each other, Where are we going to put it all if another snowfall comes?

The more immediate question is, where is the City going to put it all? For now, in front of our house. Here's the view from our front porch, looking across the street. That's our car in the foreground, still covered in snow.


Early this morning, the City crew knocked on doors to get people who are parked on the street to move their cars. The snow they dump in the middle of the street spills over onto the sidewalk.


Here's The Boy climbing the snow hill when he thought I wasn't looking.


Here comes the plow down our street.'


Here is the crew getting ready for a break.


When they have piled the snow high enough, new trucks comes in - a lifter and a carrier. The lifter scoops the snow from the pile, travels over to the carrier, and dumps the scoop of snow in.



When the green carrier is full, it drives away and another comes to take its place. All these years in the City, I've never seen a snow removal operation.

Apparently, this year's snow accumulation is close to the amount of snow we received in 1999, when Mayor Mel called in the Canadian army. This has certainly been the snowiest year since 1999. This clean up is costing the City about $25 million. Our annual snow removal budget is $65 million. We get about 125 cm of snow each year. Compared that to Montreal, a smaller city, which has a snow removal budget of $128 million. But then they get about 225 cm of snow a year.

In years, as in the past two years, when we get little snow, the snow removal budget has a surplus, which goes back into city coffers.

So for now, we feel free on our little street. Though I hear we are expect another 15 cm of snow this week.

The Boys In the Band

I know sometimes I paint a golden picture of The Boy and his friends. But it's hard not to. Take this weekend for instance.

The boys have a rock band now. They call themselves Asteroid M Goes To The Zoo. My Friend's son was turning 17 and wanted a big party. So Birthday Son asked The Boy and his band to play at his party.

The transportation of instruments and equipment involved several sets of parents. For my part, I rented a van, picked up the boys after school, and they loaded their stuff into the van.

As the boys moved about, Butterfly Boy noticed me in the driver's seat. He blew kisses at me through the van window. How is it he's not afraid of being teased by his friends for doing such things? How is it his friends don't tease him?

Once we got on the road, the boys talked about their teachers and the events that unfolded that day. Out of no where, Butterfly Boy said to me,

"Sylph, what do you think of Girlfriend?" She wasn't in the van with us, but she did go up to Deerhurst with us over the Christmas break.

"Wow, that is so girly," I said. "I only know girls and women who ask each other what they think of their boyfriends."

"Oh, oh that explains a lot of things," teased Ry, another boy in the van. "But he needs your approval."

"Yes, I need your approval," chirped Butterfly Boy.

What could I say? I answered truthfully, "I like her very much. I liked that she offered to help me at the cottage. She's a nice girl. But you wouldn't choose someone nasty."

Butterfly Boy beamed. Later, he asked, "How has it been with The Man away? Is it difficult being without him?"

He asked this in the natural flow of conversation. That is, the boys jumped from conversation to conversation as they put in some last minute singing practice and it felt natural that he should inquire after me as one of the topics of conversation.

When we got to the house where they were to play, the boys directed me to weave the unfamiliar van through the snowy troughs of the unplowed street into the snowy driveway to avoid the snow bank. They jumped out with energy and moved their equipment into the host's house with care, making sure they did not drag snow and mud into the house or damage their instruments. Then they offered to pay me for the van rental. I declined.

Now, compare them to the handful of guests who were already inside the house at the party. My boys went in first and said a cheerful hello to everyone they saw. The boys in the house barely acknowledged the new arrivals. When I went in to say hello, one grunted hello back. None offered to help. Some went upstairs to watch TV.

After the party, Friend told me she had a nice chat with The Boy and his friends. They are such nice boys, so outgoing and well-mannered, and they played beautifully, they were the highlight of the party, she enthused. I just knew that was the truth.

The next day, The Boy and his friend Drew went back to the party house to get their equipment. Birthday Son was also there with two of his friends. Everyone did what they had to do and Friend drove The Boy back. The Boy said, "Birthday Son is okay, but his friends are so glum. Throughout the ride home, I told Friend about what I'm doing at school, but the other kids said nothing. Even when Friend asked them questions, they didn't even say yes or no, they just grunted."

I don't know if The Boy and his friends are typical teenagers. I just know they are performing arts majors with extroverted personalities, so focused on their musicianship, so supported by their families, and I am so glad I sometimes get to spend time with them.

Dangers Of Travel

I ran into a friend at lunch today. He introduced me to the friend he was having lunch with. They joined me at my table. New Acquaintance talked about what he saw in Cabo, I added my two cents about Kabul, and we carried on the conversation comparing notes. Friend looked at us, from one to the other, and back again.

Then he burst out laughing. "You're talking about Cabo, Mexico, and you're talking about Kabul, Afghanistan, aren't you?"

The three of us looked at each other as the truth of what he said registered. No wonder New Acquaintance said he didn't know the Taliban had been in Cabo.

In December, the Australia government updated their travel advisory. It now contains an "Exercise Caution" advisory about Canada. It lists Chile, South Korea, and Latvia as safer than Canada. Why? Apparently, bush and forest fire "can occur any time in Canada." In addition, "heavy snowfalls and ice" can make driving dangerous, and our "wind-chill factor can also create dangerously cold outdoor conditions."

Areas of Canada are also subject to earthquakes, avalanches, and tornadoes.

Not only that. The Australian government warns their people, "We advise you to exercise caution and monitor developments that might affect your safety in Canada because of the risk of terrorist attack."

Gosh, I'm now so scared living in Canada I'm thinking of immigrating. Maybe to Chile, South Korea, or Latvia.

The Game

For me, Chinese New Year is about mah jong - the Chinese tile game played as a form of gambling. No, not just the gambling. It's the bonding while playing the game.

To be sure, the object of the game is to win money from the others at the table. Mah jong is a game of skill, luck, and concentration. One of the strategies is to try to psych out your fellow players before and during the game, especially if you know what their game weakness is. This strategy is an art and a game in itself. The method is witty puns and jovial banter. Much carelessness during the game ensue if you are distracted by the bantering. These often invoke hilarity, sometimes with much shouting and hooting.

Before our game even started on New Year, Aunt said over breakfast, "Oh Sylph, I brought watermelon seeds to eat during the game because I will have lots of time between turns waiting for you to go." She was implying I am slow at the game, a sign of inexperience or dullness of mind, and therefore a weakness.

"Oh Auntie," I said in the kindest way, "It's not whether one is fast or slow. What matters is that I win all your money today."

"Won't you be thrilled if that were to happen. You dream big, Daughter," chimed in Mom. "How much money did you bring to lose?"

"None. I don't need to bring any. One puts money in one's pocket when one wins. I won't need to take any out," I said.

When someone wins a hand, it's called taking or eating the hand. Aunt said, "Have some more food, Sylph, so you are full before we start. That way, you won't have to eat anything during the game." Clever she is.

So the banter goes on in this vein.

I did quite well at the beginning, taking every second or third hand in small winnings. But my first falter came when I realized half way through a hand I was short a tile. You need to build a winning hand with 14 tiles and I only had 13. That meant I had no chance of winning the hand we were playing and my strategy was then to prevent others from winning big by putting out tiles no one wants.

But my second mistake came when I tried to win with an incomplete hand. That is, I had 14 tiles, but I hadn't accumulated the tiles in a winning combination. I just thought I had. That was a big mistake. You get penalized as if you had cheated someone out of a big win. I had to pay everyone as if they won a full-house round. I accused Aunt of making up rules as we play. Being penalized for ruining a hand was not a rule I was aware of.

After this, my game went to hell. I kept putting out the tile for someone else's win. The person who feeds the winning tile to someone pays double to the winner. At one point, I was sure I had lost over $50. But then Bro Bro and his family arrived with 20? 100? 1000? dishes of food for dinner. And Uncle arrived with his children. And Bro Bro and Uncle filled in for Bro so he could tend to hosting duties. That must've changed the game dynamic at the table.

I sensed my luck change. At one point, I stopped all talking in the room to focus on winning an 8-fold hand, the largest hand one can win, only to be beaten by Bro Bro's chicken win, the smallest hand one can win. Despite that tease, by the end of the evening, I had won back most of my money. Aunt calculated I only lost about $9.

Which was a darn good price for a great day of fabulous entertainment and bonding.

Bringing In The New Year

Chinese New Year lasts a whole month. Families pick a day within the new year month to gather and formally ring in the new year together. Our family gathered at Bro's today.

When we meet, we are supposed to wear new clothes for the day, but we've abandoned this practice. It's no longer special to wear a new outfit when we acquire new clothing year round these days. But we still exchange new year wishes, give each other special new year food, play mah jong, and share a big meal. As if we really need an excuse to eat a big meal together.

The most common new year's greeting is Gong hai fat choy - May prosperity be yours. Other greetings including wishing each other a healthy and ailment-free year, safety going in and out of the house, smooth sailing in business, and simply a happy new year.

I can't say that I like new year food. They are often not tasty. The food items are chosen because they are homophones of lucky terms or phrases in Chinese or because they are symbolic of desirable things in life. Different regions in China may have different new year food because they speak different dialects.

For example, tangerines or kumquats (literally gold luck) are popular, because they are brightly coloured like red (a good luck colour), come with leaves (a sign of fertility), and look like ingots of gold (which means prosperity). But ox tongue is also popular, because tongue sounds like the word smooth in Cantonese. There are also nuts, seeds, and sugared dried fruit that show up around new year because of the eponymous good fortune they bring.

The one food I regret we no longer make are deep fried pastries filled with crushed peanuts and sugar. They are labour-intensive to make. I remember long ago, mom, granny, and their friends sometimes gathering for a day just to make them. I helped by rolling out the dough or putting filling in the pastry and nipping the edges with water to ensure they don't come apart during deep frying. They are crescent shaped, like gold nuggets in ancient China, deep fried to a crisp golden brown, and filled with crunchy sweetness. See why it's a new year favourite? I have extracted a promise from mom to make them with me this month.

Married couples give children and single adults lai see - lucky money in red envelopes. There is a whole protocol involved in the giving of lai see. When I was young, mom's and dad's friends used to say to me, It's candy money, when they gave me lai see. As a young adult, that changed to, It's beer money. Since I married, I have not received lai see from anyone but my parents and grandmother. You always give to your children whether they are married or not. At some juncture in life, adult children start to give lai see to their elders as a sign of respect.

You invoke luck by giving lai see, the recipient receives luck by accepting lai see. I made sure I gave out lots of lai see this year and accepted one from mom. I even had the gall to ask Aunt for a lai see. She didn't give me one because the lai see protocol doesn't allow her to give me one. But sometimes, you still have to ask good fortune to come your way, I say.

We're Under Cover

Those are the poor cedar trees in my backyard this morning. And my poor clothes line.

We've had back to back snow storms in the last two days. The snow gods must've had quite a party, shaking down 50 cm of fluffy confetti on us. For a few brief moments last night, there was even thunder and lightning, with snow, not rain! Wonder what they were celebrating.

The cedar trees in my backyard form a fence between our neighbour's backyard and ours. But it's looking like the trees may topple. If they do, I will need to replace them. Despite the grim prospect of the work involved, I actually delight in the thought of having younger trees that I can train and shape.

The ones there now were neglected for ten years before I realized they needed a trim. By then, the branches took up almost half the backyard and needles no longer grew close to the tree trunk. Each year, I trim some of the branches hoping to reclaim some of the yard space.


And here is our street covered in snow. In summer, when the red maple trees are full of leaves, they form a canopy of breezy shade over the street. But after a snow storm, they form a canopy of icicles over us. I like our street best looking like this.


And here are our neighbours out shovelling the snow off the sidewalk after work yesterday. The Boy wouldn't let me take his photograph so I took one of the neighbours instead.

After a snowfall, when all the neighbours come out to do the same thing, there is such a festive feel in the air. It's like we're having a street party. I get to talk to people I haven't seen since...since the last snow storm.


And hey, Happy Lunar New Year!

My Compatriots

In the movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, the bride's father had a fix for everything: Windex. Got a dirty table? Use Windex. Got a cut on your finger? Spray it with Windex.

My father also had his own fix-all. Have trouble breathing? Do tai chi to expand lung capacity. Fat? Do tai chi to sweat it out. Got a mortgage problem? Do tai chi to get clearer thinking. In fact, he articulated clearly to me one day: The Middle East would not be trying to kill each other if everyone there just took up tai chi. In his random logic, he was right.

Dad tried to teach me tai chi. But I rejected it. I didn't want to exercise with white-haired people in their 80's.

But today, I signed up for a tai chi class. I've been trying to go for six months. But the timing was never quite right. Today, I made it to class. The class is taught by two retired women in their sixties. There are four students in class. Three are senior citizens. How do I know? They all asked for the senior's discount. Two have physical ailments.

Hank, he must be close to 70, has trouble walking. When he entered the office, he collapsed into a chair by the door. The instructor gasped and said, "Oh, he fell." Hank said, "Yeah, but good thing this chair was here." This is the second time he's taking this beginner's course. I can barely understand him as he talks with a heavy British brogue.

Marilyn came in slowly with a cane. Osteoporosis, she said.

Cynthia seems okay so far. I have knee problems, she said. But so do I. After a few years away from tai chi, she has returned to start at the beginning.

They all seem like very nice people. I had to smile. I am exercising with retirees after all. Dad would have been proud.

No Thanks

I dislike telemarketers. I dislike even more telemarketers who trick you into giving them your phone number by having you fill out something under false pretenses just so they can get your phone number.

But I often feel sorry for the caller because they have to make a living by phoning people who don't want to hear from them. I try not to be rude but I am often not successful. It's like they set me up to fail.

This is the phone call I received this morning.

- Hello. Is this Mr. or Mrs. Sylph? Hello? Hello?

- Yes.

- My name is ...unintelligible... I am the vice president of ...mumble mumble... Hello? Hello?

- Yes?

- I have here a hand-written coupon with your name on it. Do you live at ...mumble mumble..? Hello? Hello?

- Yes?

- Hello? Yes. Do you remember filling out a form on June 17, 2007 at a shopping mall or ...unintelligible..? Hello? Hello?

- No, I don't remember doing such a thing.

- Hello? Hello?

- Yes?

- No? I don't blame you. It was a long time ago. Hello?

- Yes?

- If you asked me if I remember doing something from June, I probably won't remember either. Hello?

- What are you calling about?

- Our company has been operating in the States for seven years. We are now expanding into Canada. Hello? Hello?

- Yes?

- We are now in Canada and we are located in Woodbridge. Hello?

- Yes?

- So I am calling to offer you a promotional gift. Your name was selected. Hello? Hello?

- Yes?

- All you have to do is...

- What does your company do?

- We offer vacation ...mumble mumble...

- Vacation? No no, I'm not interested in vacation scams.

- Hello? Hello?

- No thanks. Good bye.

If I am going to get scammed, I want it at least to be a good experience. I want to know what technique is being employed, I want admire the cleverness of the maneuver, I want to delight in the audacity and eloquence of the delivery. To satisfy this appetite, I always let telemarketers go on for longer than necessary.

But that was a pretty bad pitch on his part. I couldn't understand him. His cell phone didn't seem to work for him. I had to ask him what he was calling about and what his company did. He made me do a lot of work. All that so he could scam me? No thanks.

Waste Not

In Brazil, the government funds human milk banks. Nursing mothers who have too much milk express the excess and donate it to the bank. The bank pasteurizes the milk, packages it, and gives it to babies whose mothers have trouble lactating.

A friend just got back from Brazil with photographs of such a bank and its staff.


Biodynamic farming is apparently the next step up from organic farming. This was the subject I learned most about in India while chatting with marchers from Germany. The practice allows small farmers to treat farm land as a self-sustaining whole. Farmers do not use chemicals to control disease and encourage growth. They bury dead plants and animals so when decomposed, nutrients return to the earth. They practise crop rotation so the same minerals and nutrients are not sucked out of the soil by the same crop year after year. They use the calendar only as an approximate guide for planting and harvesting; they rely more on the "feel" of the weather for the precise time to plant and harvest.


The Turkish salwar is sewn using two leg-lengths of cloth without wasting a scrap. This is how they cut the pattern.




































That flap that comes out from the crotch is just the leftover fabric from the leg turned upside down.

I like the simplicity and non-waste of these practices.