Tourist On The Waterfront

I spent a wonderful afternoon with Outrageous, now my bad influence, eating too much, smoking and wondering around the waterfront.

We ate at the renovated Gladstone Hotel and even managed a tour of the premises. The Gladstone is a quaint landmark, a reminder of Toronto's past. I've only ever known it as a scary, seedy dive where the homeless went to get drunk with their welfare money. It has been refurbished as an arts hotel, with much of its architecture, original features, and long-time staff and customers in tact. Last Call At The Gladstone, a documentary film, details the 2001 departure of the hotel's residents and transition of the hotel into its present form. We were served brunch by one of the waitresses featured in the film!

Outrageous and I walked through neighbourhoods I never knew about. We went into open houses of chic condos where I wanted us to pose as a lesbian couple.

On the Bathurst bridge in front of old Fort York, three bar stools perch on the sidewalk, glued to cement blocks. They could be an art installation, sitting in the sun, in the middle of nowhere. I can find no information about these stools on the internet, but there they were, offering respite to pilgrims of the bridge.

Beyond the industrial bridge and iron railings, we came upon the island airport dock. A ferry makes frequent crossings to the airport a skip and a hop across the water. This dock is clean and spanking new, and open to the public. It's really important to know where all the good washrooms are in the city.

A short walk down the dock is a small patch of grass. On it are five statues erected as the Irish Famine Memorial. The gaunt statues look yearningly out to the water in the direction where the ships would have come in. They haunt with the hunger and despair of displaced immigrants who cannot find home either in the promise land or in the country they left behind. Visitors have stuffed coins into the crevices of these statues for luck. This is an amazing little hideaway, more beautiful because you come upon it so unexpectedly. This is now my secret place.

Further down the walk, we came to the Toronto Music Garden, Yo-Yo Ma's visual interpretation of Bach's Unaccompanied Cello. It is a delightful garden of twists and turns and unexpected foliage. At the end of the garden, we sat on a bench in front of a docked yacht and listened to a parrot mimic a cell phone. Every time it trilled, passersby reached for their cell phones. The clever bird.

In the evening, I had dinner with Sis and friends at a tapas restaurant. They are the right people to go to an experimental restaurant with. Duck and lamb dumplings, frog legs, sea bream, they were all good.

After, we went to see Michael Moore's Sicko. Oh sure, his is a biased presentation full of irreverence, but it doesn't make the lack of universal health care in the U.S. any less serious an issue. It certainly made me appreciate our health care system more, troubled as it is, and I am thinking, we could model our system after France or Cuba...

All in all, a really great day of fun, beauty, and good company. I really needed it.

Just An Old Lady

I got to spend an entire afternoon alone with The Exchange yesterday. We went to the CN Tower. Now, you'd think that would be a real treat, like a dream date or something. And it would have been, if I weren't such an old lady.

To be sure, The Exchange is beautiful to look at, a pleasure to stand beside. But it's been a long time since I've been downtown. In fact, I can't remember the last time. And it's certainly been never that I found myself at Union Station during rush hour when suburban office workers disgorge from concrete towers with furrowed brows and harried paces.

So that was how I hooked up with The Exchange. We put The Boy on a bus to Hamilton for a gig, then went to the CN Tower through the underground pathways of Union Station. After a few steps, I felt disoriented, like a trapped animal. I remembered why I hated underground passages. Soon, I was overwhelmed by the human traffic and white noise around me. I couldn't focus or turn the sound off.

I was surprised that The Exchange knew how to get to the CN Tower through these interior corridors. I felt I should have known that route. I was sure I had been there before. Yet, every step I took felt new, and at every junction, I didn't know which turn to take. For the first time, I had a sense of what claustrophobia or a panic attack might feel like and I wondered if this wasn't an extension of my inability to sit in an enclosed non-moving car. In those winding tunnels of Union Station amongst the mole-like scurrying and shrieking of bipeds, I felt a depression come over me.

When we finally got up to the CN Tower, it was an hour's wait before we could get up to the Sky Pod. We stood in line. Throngs of people moved back and forth in the narrow hall of the observation deck where we queued for the elevator. Soon, I was fanning myself and heard The Exchange ask several times, Are you okay? Sure?

I knew I was okay. I just didn't know why I had broken out in a sweat and was heaving for breath. Sure, there were lots of people around, and it may have been hot. It dawned on me I might've been having a hot flash.

To normalize my attention, I struck up meaningless conversation with The Exchange (as if any of our conversations have ever been anything but opportunities for me to stare at him in wonder) and people in the queue.

The young woman in front showed me her drawings. She had been sketching furiously in her pad during the whole line up. She was from Belize, the only English speaking country in Central America. I didn't know that Belize operates much like Canada, with English its official language and Queen Elizabeth its head of state.

Still, it was pleasant enough, this excursion to the CN Tower. But it was obvious The Exchange would rather spend time with The Boy than with me. Thank god he's normal. In our chats, he reveals he is more than just a pretty face, full of political opinions, quite worldly and knowledgeable about Canada.

But I am afraid that I too am more...more of an old lady than I thought. Funny that nature should assert itself so to remind me to keep my distance and behave.

Desperately Seeking Balance

You know I love the boys in my house right now and sometimes I can't believe what I good time I am having with them. Last night, The Boy invited a friend to join him and The Exchange on an outing. When they came home, I happened to drive by the bottom of our street. So they swarmed me, sat on the hood of the car, and generally mimicked ruffians. I told them the neighbours are watching so they quickly got into the car like good boys.

As much as I love them, I find myself craving greater intellectual stimulation. They've so filled my capacity for silliness I find I cannot sit through a Harry Potter reading. I want to read a book of substance. I give of myself to them, around the clock it feels like, my yearning turns to my sketch book, pastels and oil paints. For the first time, I resent that our CD player is broken and I can't play the music I enjoy. As I go about my errands and drive the boys around, I find myself looking out the car window, hoping to run into a friend for some adult conversation. I am in need of replenishment.

But it's hard to get away. I just made BLTs for the boys' lunch, then came downstairs to blog. After his lunch, The Exchange came down, looked deep into my eyes and said, "Thank you Sylph, for lunch. That was very good. You come back with me to France and make food for me."

"Did you try the banana bread?"

"Ah yes, I tried. But I can't eat. It's very sweet. I want to eat but my stomach does not agree."

"Oh you're a smooth one."

"What? What you say?"

"Nevermind. That's okay."

Okay. Now I really got to get out of the house before I jump all over the dear boy and smother him with kisses in front of The Boy and his friend.

The Good Place

I talked to Dr. Noggins about my crush on The Exchange. He says it's okay, it's coming from a good place. I said, "How do you know it's from a good place and not the lecherous desires of a dirty old lady?"

He said because he knows me and people are always more themselves in his office. Then he told me about travels this summer with his 68-year-old brother, his brother's wife, and his own wife. They visited various countries in Europe last month. In one city, they met up with a graduate student of his brother's. She's in her mid-twenties. They had dinner with her and her boyfriend and met up several times after.

It was obvious to everyone, including the brother, that the brother had a crush on this grad student. But he didn't do anything about it and everyone enjoyed his crush.

Despite my being compared to a 68-year-old man, this story made me smile. There is something good about appreciating the beauty and budding adulthood of the young, that I can appreciate them without wanting anything for myself, that I can appreciate their essence and want only good things for them, that I can extend this appreciation and good will to others, and even if I don't immediately see other people's goodness, I trust it's there.

So then The Exchange came home from a day of fly-fishing with The Man. They left the house before I got up so I hadn't seen him all day. He had such a good time that upon seeing me, he kissed me twice and I stroked his sunburned cheeks.

Do I still think Dr. Noggins knows what he's talking about?

Yes I do. Because earlier in the day, The Boy came home from a student council meeting and had to make his own way to Union Station for a hook up to a rehearsal in Hamilton. He phoned me just as I got off the bus near home. He sounded rushed. I asked him what he wanted. He said, "Train fare and some hugs." I said, "I'm here for that." You can't imagine how thrilled and pleased I was that he still wanted hugs from me when he is under pressure.

Precious And Few

Being with The Exchange is like being with The Boy, without the complaining and whining. He doesn't know how to do that in English. I mean, it's ridiculous how the two of them dress alike. I am sure they don't confer about what to wear in the morning, yet they come downstairs wearing striped t-shirts, capri cargos, and sockless Converses. In photographs, they strike similar stances and expressions. They rib me the same way. They tell me how similar Exchange's mother and I are.

I love every minute of being with The Exchange. Having said that, having The Exchange in the house also punctuates how much The Man, The Boy and I actually have a rhythm and routine despite our seeming chaos, and how we've adapted to each other's need for alone time.

The Exchange adores The Boy. But who doesn't. The Boy likes him, but finds it a challenge to be shadowed, for six weeks now, when he would like to spend time with his friends now that he is home. The Man doesn't like giving up his office for The Exchange's bedroom. I continue to adore all three of them, though when disagreements erupt, I am quick to jump ship to save my sanity.

This afternoon, the plans for our outings fell apart. We were frustrated with our inability to formulate new plans. I think it came down to all of us needing time away from each other. I darted out of the house and stopped neighbours on the street to talk to them. The Man threatened to drive off in the car but ended up on the street with me holding impromptu meetings with passersby. The Boy read. The Exchange wrote post cards home.

After about two hours, I went back into the house. All was well. We were all friends again.

The surprising thing is not how The Exchange is an extra corner to our trinity, but in fact, how much he fits in. It's like we suddenly melded into a shape-shifting polygon, more dynamic, in tune with each other, tolerant, and forgiving of each other than I thought possible. The Exchange has a sensitivity, maturity and confidence that makes this possible.

If I were to have another son, he would be The Exchange. Right now, I don't want to imagine life without him and I am plotting ways to keep him. So what is it that draws me to him? I mean aside from the fact that he is good looking, smart, good humoured, engaging, easy-going, gentlemanly and charming.

I think it's because there is a vulnerability to him that yanks at my maternal heart strings. That, and the liveliness of potential, purity, innocence and beauty in the face of vulnerability.

Few people draw my attention to our potential for meaning, happiness, and goodness in spite of being vulnerable. Knowing these people exist makes me glad and hopeful for humanity. They make me want to protect them and what they symbolize. They make me want to be a better me. Because of them, I am more aware of the essence of purity and beauty in others and appreciate people much more.

The Boy is one of these people. The Man another. Kid2 is one. The Boy's friend Butterfly Boy is one. And now The Exchange. I am blessed to have them in my life and to actually talk to them and touch them. And yes, The Exchange kissed me this morning.

Pogo, Poutine and Beef Patty

Great. Now I'm being accused of trying to poison The Exchange.

Because we were rafting on the Quebec side of the Ottawa River, of course we had to get The Exchange to try poutine. We stopped at a chip truck. Not only did they have poutine, they also had pogo. So I got The Exchange an order of each.

The Man said at the time, "Pogo? That's an illegal food." Thinking he was serious, The Exchange inquired about the nature of its illegality. The Man had to explain his joke.

Like a trooper, The Exchange said, "Okay, when in Rome..." and ate the pogo and the poutine. Then he got sick. After, he said, "Now I know why pogos are illegal."

Bro came over last night and said, "From French cuisine to pogo and poutine? How could he not get sick?" Such snobbery. It's the experience. Having said that, Bro offered The Exchange a Jamaican beef patty.

Fearlessly, The Exchange accepted. I jumped in with knife, fork and plate and said, "Try one bite first and go slow." The Exchange was quick to identify the Jamaican beef patty as beef with spicy seasoning wrapped in puff pastry. The smart boy. He ate half and declared it was good, but that half was enough.

Then he said to me, "Now I know why you gave me pogo. You don't want me to come back to Canada." Such cheek. He teased me with that because he knows I dote on him.

Smitten

I am in Ottawa right now, at an internet cafe. The four of us - The Man, The Boy, The Exchange and I - have spent so much time together, we came here to have some alone time. Each alone in front of our own computer, communicating with the world beyond the four of us.

We came to Ottawa directly from our camping trip at Awenda. I think my purpose in life must be to coordinate trips like this that bring friends and family together. Each year, I have a good time. This year, I had a great time.

I wonder how much of the good time had to do with Prozac, and how much of it had to do with all the women on the trip getting just a bit smitten with The Exchange.

He's such a cute guy, so charming, and a terrible flirt. On the first night of camping, I told him that in the morning, we will have coffee for him. He said, "Yes that is good. Coffee in the morning makes a man happy." It took a few seconds to sink in that he meant himself as the man.

The Exchange helped around the camp site, chopped vegetables for dinner, and enjoyed spending time with younger kids. Of 7-year-old Nephew, he said, "He looks like a surfer when he runs, because he has long blond hair and he wears a surfer shirt. He's the little brother I wish I had."

We went into Penetanguishene one day to get travel information. We met a sea captain in the tourist bureau who told us Penetanguishene is a French settlement and therefore, many people speak French. The young woman at the desk immediately offered a few phrases of French to welcome us. When we got outside, The Exchange said to me, "I will come back to Canada. I will come back if all the girls who speak French in Canada are as pretty as she is."

Later at a drive-in, Sis asked him if he has a girlfriend. He flubbed about. I said, "The question is, how many girlfriends do you have?" He's quick and good natured. "Seven," he answered, "one for each day of the week."

Driving to Ottawa, we stopped for a Subway sandwich. In the car, trying to maneuver the sandwich, he spilled some sauce on his jeans. "Arg," he complained, "I am sure this is an American sandwich. In France, we also have sandwiches, but the sauce, they stay inside the sandwich. Here, they go to the jeans."

He absolutely charms and delights me. He's polite, helpful, gentlemanly, smart, funny, and the more I see him, the better looking I think he is. I am sure I have a little crush on him. But then I stop myself. Shame on you, I say, he's six months younger than The Boy.

It's okay. Because the maternal urge is also strong. I want to adopt him and Kid2 because they are so much fun to talk to and be with. I could be way ahead of Angelina Jolie.

We've been very tired in Ottawa. It's all the late nights at camping, and the walking around. We are trying to recover because tonight, we head to Davidson, Quebec for whitewater rafting in the morning.

Face Of Another

During the school year, The Exchange lives with his mother and maternal grandmother in a town near the Spanish border. His grandmother is elderly and a little confused, he said. Somehow, she got it in her head that The Boy would understand her better if she spoke to him in Spanish. I asked if she thought The Boy was Spaniard. He's been mistaken for that before. The Exchange said no, she's just old and confuses the two languages since they are both foreign languages to her.

Then I asked The Boy if he's picked up any Spanish as a result of the grandmother speaking to him. He seemed surprised, not having clued in until now that's what the grandmother had been using.

The Boy told me The Exchange's mother speaks excellent English. I asked The Exchange how she learned. He said, "In school."

"But she speaks it so well."

"No, she doesn't. She just likes to speak English so she tried to speak it all the time to The Boy."

Well that explains why she didn't understand me in the two phone conversations we had.

Then The Exchange dropped a good one. He said his paternal grandfather was Cambodian. You would never know looking at him with his light complexion, hazel eyes, tall nose and wavy brown hair. In fact, he looks quite like Frodo in Lord Of The Rings.

In the one photograph of his father we have, the father doesn't look Cambodian either. But The Exchange said his half brother, who is 6-years-old, has Asiatic features. The Boy agreed.

I suppose it's possible. Looking at Kid2, you would never know that she has Chinese blood, what with her blondish hair and round eyes.

I once had a friend who was blond with a Chinese surname. We were in grade six and she was a rough and tumble girl. Definitely not the hair-dying kind. She said her biological father was Chinese, though she had no Asiatic features. Her brother, however, was very oriental looking.

The Boy had a pretty friend once who had curly dark hair with hazel eyes. I thought she was Italian. Lo and behold, her father is black and her mother white Russian.

There is no predicting what bi-racial kids look like. You just accept that they have an exquisite genetic blend.

French Kissing

I like the French custom of children kissing their mothers every morning, one peck on each cheek. I mentioned this to The Boy and he immediately gave me two pecks. He said he doesn't object to this custom.

I used to kiss him every morning. But I stopped when he declared his independence and we started keeping different schedules.

I am working on The Man kissing me in the morning and at night. Once upon a time, he did that. But then along the way, he stopped. Probably because we started going to bed at different times, and sometimes slept in different rooms, and we wake up at different times. To be fair, he kisses me often enough. It's just that I often recoil in horror because of his bad breath. So what I'm really working on is getting him to improve his breath so I can enjoy his kisses.

But as for the morning kiss, I want to institute that custom in our house. I see Exchange, The Boy, and The Man lining up to kiss me each morning as the start to their day. Yes. I like this custom.

I wonder if French teens kiss their mothers good night.

Nice Young Spacemen

I am sure they are not all innocence and charm. But lately, all the young teen boys I've met are such nice boys.

A while ago, a 16-year-old came to dinner. His mother brought him because she thought The Boy might like to meet him. This 16-year-old was articulate, charming, polite and worldly, with a sense of humour to boot. He's looking forward to getting together with The Boy.

Our Exchange is also like that. I like that he kisses me in the morning (that's what the French do apparently), and when he hears me run the sink, he offers to help me with the dishes. He's soft-spoken, likes music, and stumbles through his English in a most easy, unapologetic way. He's trying to read Harry Potter in English. Takes a long time in English, he says, reading only 100 pages a day. Still, he's way ahead of me. I seem to be stuck at page 14.

Yet, there's a benign, spaced-out-ness with these boys. It's like they are constantly wide-eyed with wonder, willing to adapt and take in whatever comes their way, with easy-going personalities. Maybe it's because these boys have travelled and they treat me with the reverential respect that well-brought up young men give to their friends' parents. I wonder if The Boy comes across to other parents like that, despite being so difficult and complaining at home.

The Boy tells me his friends are eager to meet Exchange. That's so social of them. I can hear Bro say, I don't want to meet him, what's he got to do with me? Maybe I'm just really lucky that The Boy is a good guy and attracts friends eager to participate in life.

Earth, Wind, Water, and Fire

This year, more than in past years, I felt all elements of nature alive and in balance at our camping site in Killarney. The six of us pitched our tents high on a rock, with the blue sky above us, the lake below us, the wind blowing through the trees, and at night, we lit a bonfire and stared at the stars.

I skinny-dipped in the lake, in broad daylight! because there was little traffic passing by our site.

I got lost in the pitch black forest while visiting the thunder box at night. It's amazing how disoriented one can be when one can't see one's surroundings. Thankfully, I wasn't far from my tent mate and she guided me back with her flashlight when I called out for help.

I am convinced that mosquitoes hover around smoke fire at night to keep warm and look for feedings. When you step away from the fire and into the cooler air and night breeze, you can see the pests hovering those close to the fire, especially those under the white mosquito netting. It was like the net attracted the pests.

We paddled, hiked and ate tremendously well of vegetarian fare. That's one of the things I love about this annual trip: I come home healthier and I incorporate more meatless dishes in my family's meals.

My favourite part of this year's trip was nestling in the crook of the rock. There were several of these crooks high up on the rock that was the foundation for our campsite. It was earth's way to cradle me while the sun kept me warm, the wind kept me cool, and the water below kept me attentive.

Lying there on a lazy afternoon, happy feelings of childhood came flooding back, though I can't recall ever having nestled in a rock by the water in my childhood. It just felt like that feeling of contentment, being protected and carefree should be a childhood memory for everyone.

The House At Home

I just got back from a wilderness camping trip straight into tearing apart the computer room to convert it into a bedroom. The Boy and Exchange arrive this afternoon!

We are almost ready. Just some last minute cleaning and tidying.

Ours is a 3-bedroom house. The third bedroom has always been an office, or the computer room. I've always wanted it converted to a bedroom, for me, on days when I snore too loudly and when I need alone time. Now that we've done it, it feels natural to have the third room as a bedroom, as if the house is at home. How do I persuade The Man his office needs to be permanently in the basement?

For now, we will enjoy the house as is for at least one month.

WTF?

The Man invited someone to dinner, to catch up on things. The Man said, "If your brother in still in town, bring him too. I haven't seen him for ages."

The guest said, "As a matter of fact, he is."

The Man said, "Great."

"And my other brother is here."

"Well, bring him too."

"Okay. My son will probably join us, and my brother has two kids."

So from what I originally thought was two guests, we now have six. Then this morning, The Man sent an e-mail from work. There are actually eight of them coming.

WTF? Who are all these people?

The Girls, Part II

I visited the bra shop with the persuasive saleslady again. I took a friend there because I trust Bra Lady's judgement and Friend needed a new bra.

Upon entering the store, Bra Lady asked which of us needed a bra. I pointed at Friend and Friend pointed at me. Friend whispered, "She looks fierce. You have to get sized too if I am going to get one."

Bra Lady said, "One at a time." Then she measured me with her hands and eyes. "40F," she pronounced.

"40F? No, hold on. You gave me 40D last time. I've lost weight since. How can I be 40F now?"

"Different make." She pulled a bra off one of her shelves. "Try this. Trust me. I see you wearing Canadian bra that make you flat and too far apart." She pointed at my girls.

I went into the change room while she hunted for a bra for Friend.

The cups on my bra were huge. No way I could even fill half of them. I put it on. Lots of room up front. I peeked out from behind the change room curtain and said, "It's not going to work. It's way too big."

Bra Lady stood at the curtain and stuck her hand into the cubicle, reaching for inside my bra. She pulled the flesh up front to fill the cups. I felt so jello-y. But there was still too much loose fabric around the cup. I put my shirt over the bra and whoa! My breasts were pointing sky high like rockets ready to launch. "No, no, this won't work. They make me look fake. Too high, they're pointing too high."

"No, trust me. That's perfect. Why you want to look flat and saggy? This bra hold you in. Make you look like a woman."

"Do you have a wireless one?"

"Wireless? No, what you use to hold you up if no wire?"

"How about one that makes me less pointy?"

"You not look pointy. Good support."

"I can't, I feel too fake in this."

Bra Lady shrugged and said, "Up to you." I wondered if she knew she made a pun.

Then she tried to fit Friend. After sizing her up, Bra Lady pronounced, "36C."

"She's good," Friend said. Friend buys 34 bras but felt she really needed 36. But C cup?

Bra Lady gave Friend two bras to try on. Surprisingly, neither fit. One was too small, the other too big. Bra Lady shook her head. Then she said, "You need corset to keep this in," pointing at her mid-section.

Friend said, "You are probably right. But I am not going to get a corset. I am going to lose weight first."

So Bra Lady didn't make a sale. She was defeated by our girls.

The Girls

To better prepare myself for my pilates summer, I bought a second yoga top. It is lined across the chest and hug you skin tight so you don't have to worry about flapping bra straps.

I said to the cashier, "This is an exercise top, right?"

She said, "Yes. It's got this bra lining inside so you don't have to wear a bra. But I always wear my bra anyway when I exercise. Because when you're jumping about, the girls jump out if you don't hold them in."

I tried hard not to laugh. Her girls were not that big. So I said, "Well, you know your girls."

Then like a pervert, I started looking around the store at all the women to size up their girls. Oh really, if even she has trouble with her girls, imagine how out of control some of our girls are.

What Father Never Told Me

I brought Mom to Cobourg recently for a house and garden tour. After, we had dinner with my Mother-in-law. For a woman who claims to speak no English, Mom communicated well with Mother-in-law. Mom never needed a translator. It was Mother-in-law who asked for translation, I think not because she didn't understand Mom, but because she couldn't believe what Mom was saying.

So this is what I learned about Dad: he was engaged to another woman before Mom.

In the mid-1950's, Great-grandma (Mom's dad's mother) was living in Hong Kong. She rented a room in a building. In the same building lived a young woman and her mother. The young woman also had a rented room. Her mother rented a bed. (Those were the cramped housing conditions of the poor at the time. Apparently, it's not much different now.) This young woman was engaged to Dad.

They were engaged for three years. That was a long engagement back then. It was Dad who kept delaying the wedding. One of the reasons for the delay was, as a condition of marriage, the woman's mother required Dad to support her till death, and after death, to maintain her grave.

It meant he would have to tend her grave till the end of his days. Culturally, this was a common request. But Dad was a man of his words. He didn't want to do that and he didn't want to lie about it. I wonder if even then, he had thoughts of leaving Hong Kong some day. And he figured it was not worth it to get married only to gain two dependents for life. I think he must've really not liked the woman's mother.

Eventually, he broke off the engagement. In ancient China, arranged marriages were common. If a man backed out of an arranged marriage, even though he has never met the intended bride, it could cause such humiliation and irreparable damage to her reputation as an unwanted woman that jilted brides often committed suicide. Even though Hong Kong in the 50's was not ancient China, this turn of events must've have been devastating for Dad's fiancee.

But Mom came from a family of successful gold merchants. They know when to seize the opportunity. That's when Great-grandma said, but he's still a good man, and suggested to Dad that he meet her granddaughter, who was still in China, but was moving to Hong Kong soon. Dad was 29, he was eager to be married. Mom was 18, just the right age to be plucked. Accompanied by her mother and brother, Mom moved to Hong Kong and met Dad.

Within 6 months, they were married. When knowledge of their engagement spread, Dad's ex-fiancee phoned Dad to ask if he wanted her engagement ring back. Dad told her to sell the ring and buy something sweet for herself.

A year after Mom and Dad married, I came tumbling out of mom and into a whole new set of drama.

A Spur Of Enthusiasm

I've been monitoring my diet the last six weeks. This was necessitated by high blood pressure. I've lost almost 10 lbs. I can't be more delighted.

To capitalize on my good work, I purchased a summer membership to our local pilates studio. That means I can take an unlimited number of classes during the eight weeks of the summer. (This is disturbing, to see in writing that summer only lasts eight weeks.) But to make the membership worthwhile, I'd need to take at least three classes a week. More, to make up for the week I'll be away camping. So this week, I signed up for six classes. That's almost exercise every day.

I've had two classes so far this week. It feels great to be back at pilates after a three month absence. I missed it so. But today, I am hurting all over. How can I do this six times a week? Too late, I've signed up and paid.

Go Sylph go!

Just Fine

Though of course, all it takes is a phone call to know that the situation has changed. Apparently, The Boy is having a good time. He's borrowed triangle underwear for the pool. The camp ground owners like them. He and Exchange have made friends with some little kids at the camp ground.

They were making all kinds of noise and screaming when I talked to him. He even spoke to them in French, asking one of the kids if he was five or six. Sounds so natural.

Now I can go to pilates in peace.

A Reprieve, An Anxiety

Who knew that with The Boy away, I would have nothing to write about. It's almost like I've put my mind on a shelf. Not true of course, but there have been days it's felt like that.

The truth is, The Boy has been terribly homesick. I've talked to him almost everyday, and sending off e-mails and text messages. It's being so far away from home, it's not being able to communicate meaningfully with anyone, it's not having good food because really, you only get good food in France in restaurants and he isn't eating in restaurants with his host family. He's had little internet access so he's had to withdraw from the online course he was hoping to complete in France.

At least he likes the Exchange and the Exchange's 14-year-old cousin. He and the Exchange share similar taste in music and art. The Cousin is the regional break dance champion. Who knew villages in southern France have regional break dance champs.

He's been camping with the Exchange and the Cousin. They were driven to a family camp ground 20 minutes away from the Exchange's village and given two tents and sleeping bags, and that was it. The three were left at the camp ground overnight. While it was an adventure of sorts, they had absolutely nothing to do.

There was a swimming pool with a slide at the camp ground. But camp owners would't let The Boy use it without the proper swim wear. They only allow the triangle, Speedo type bathing suit, or you can even swim in a skin-hugging triangular underwear. But they did not like The Boy's bathing trunks nor his boxers. Too much like street clothes.

The Boy's asked that we arrange to send him back to Paris for a day or two to meet a friend of his, who will be in Paris for a week with her family. Maybe a bit of familiarity will help with the homesickness and improve the second half of his trip. I asked him to put me in touch with her parents first and we will talk about it, without promising anything. Then yesterday, I did not hear from The Boy at all. He has not even replied to my text message. Nor has he gotten in touch today. They may have moved to the Exchange's cottage, or things improved for The Boy and he has not had a chance to recharge his cell phone.

Or he's lost his cell phone.

I will phone tomorrow. I worry about him.

Off To A Good Start

After The Boy got on the plane, I came home to stay awake. I couldn't sleep, knowing he's travelling by himself, across an ocean to a place he's never been, to meet people he's never met, never talked to except in e-mails (The Man and I talked to Exchange Father by phone once), not even sure what they look like except for one photograph exchanged (The Man did a little video of us and uploaded it to YouTube for them).

That first night, I knew he landed in Paris at 3:30 am. I checked with the airline. That's 9:30 am in Paris. At 4:00 am, the Exchange Father phoned to say he's got The Boy and they are still at the airport. I was relieved to talk to them. The Boy sounded tired. All he managed to tell me was, it was fun on the plane travelling by himself.

I thanked Exchange Father for calling and told him I was going to call The Boy's cell in the next half hour. He said, "If I were in your place, knowing my son arrived safely would be more important than being awakened in the night." I said, "I have not gone to bed yet so you did not wake me."

The next day, we went about our activities and came home to this message:

Hey mom and dad. So um, what did you guys do today? Yes...mm hmm...well that's nice. Oh me? I went to the Arc de Triomphe and attended mass at Notre Dame. Talk to you later.

That saucy boy. We phoned the Exchange Father in Paris. It was 9:00 pm there. But The Boy had already gone to sleep. Exchange Father told us they had a great day. Walked along the Champs-Élysées, went for ice cream at Berthillon. The Boy loved the ice cream, paid attention to everything wide-eyed with interest, even asked questions about the history and architecture of what they saw. Really? Has he picked up the wrong boy at the airport after all?

They are staying with friends. The friends also have a 16-year-old son. So The Boy, Exchange, Friend's Son hung out together. "He speaks French very well," said Exchange Father. What? Since when? He almost failed French in Grade 9 and dropped the subject.

"And he's very outgoing, polite, and good natured. Funny too. He's a pleasure to be with." Well yes, he's usually all that.

We chatted and The Man was giddy over The Boy's experience. We feel assured he's safe and Exchange Father is a good man. Especially when The Man told him The Boy has money with him to pay for museum admissions, food, and transportation, and Exchange Father said, "No no. He is in France, I treat him like my son."

I went to bed at 9:30 pm last night, from not sleeping the night before. At 4:30 am, my cell phone gave off a loud shrill that woke me up. The Boy had text messaged:

Hey, im just hanging out at da Louvre ;)

There were The Man and I fumbling in the dark, not quite awake, not sure how to do text messaging. But we managed to send back this message:

Cool. Don't steal Mona. Call you later. Love you.