At the end of the march in India, most of us prepared to go home, including the French couple who coordinated the foreigners and served as the international communications team. They had been in India for two years, with visits home every six months. The last six months had been extremely stressful as they negotiated with service providers and struggled with a non-Western sense of time and urgency to get things done.
Sam said to me on his last evening, "I can't decide which I want to do first when I get home - take a big bite into a chocolate croissant, or get a plain croissant and dip it into a cup of hot chocolate." Since then, I've been hankering to do something similar - dip a chocolate croissant into my coffee. Oh I had croissants and coffee in Kabul, but they weren't so much croissants as crescent shaped warm dough and the coffee was powdered instant.
This week, after my morning pilates class, I went into Pain Perdu, our local French cafe. I may not be French, but being in there was like coming home. When The Man took The Exchange there in the summer, The Exchange came back elated and exclaimed, "It was like holding a piece of France in my hands."
So I ordered a chocolate croissant and a bowl of cafe au lait, and I dipped the croissant in my coffee and took a bite. It was sublime. The croissant melted in my mouth, tapping awake forgotten taste buds before flowing down my stomach in a milky wash of warm, frothy coffee.
Thing is, I don't usually dip my croissant into my coffee. The idea of soggy bread doesn't appeal to me, and I am lactose intolerant so milky drinks literally don't sit well with me. But it was something about the way Sam said it, with that dreamy, faraway look in his eyes, and his girlfriend, Anais, beside him, saying, "Ahh..." as he said it, that made me want to dip my croissant into a warm milky bath.
Sam and I had had earlier conversations about how to treat Anais right. At that moment, I reminded him, "When you kiss Anais, make sure you cradle her head. That just sweeps a woman away." It's only now that I realize I had given kissing tips to a French man when he was talking about croissants and hot chocolate.
In North America, bread and milk are staples in many kitchens. But truly, it's the French who have elevated these staples to a gastronomical adventure of the most satisfying kind, tying food in with all the delightful sensual, friendly, and comfortable necessities of life.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Musical Interlude
Driving home from lunch one day, the radio announced a choral concert at a nearby church in the evening. I came home to look up the information gleaned from the announcement. Turned out it was a concert by Russia's Academy of Choral Art at St. Anne's Anglican Church on Gladstone. The choir would sing selections from Rachmaninov's Vespers. I don't know about Rachmaninov's Vespers, but Russian a cappella virtually down the road!
I phoned for a ticket and went. I love last minute choral concerts in churches. That's how one should listen to such music - stumble upon it as if called in by song, and that's where music ought to be played - in the place that the music is composed for, with god in attendance.
I acquired this preference in France and Italy. When I travelled all those years ago, I wandered many towns and city neighbourhoods on foot. Invariably, I ended up in a church at the end of the day. I was usually looking for a place to rest before heading back to the hotel. It always surprised me when I came upon a concert. I went it even if I was late.
Once in Dijon, while sitting in an almost empty church, people started coming in and setting up music stands. Before you know it, more people came in and sat down around me. Then musicians picked up their instruments and played. Someone handed me a program of the night's concert. It was Mozart and Bach. For the next two hours, I wondered if I was in heaven, and I was not a fan of classical music in those days.
So St. Anne's Church has a high dome in the middle. It has a colour scheme of pink, blue, and yellow, with harlequin patterns and florals painted around window frames and arches. Seated in a pew, we watched the choir enter the stage area. They were young! Not children, but none of the singers could have been more than 25-years-old. The men in black suits came in first and sang a few songs. Then the women in burgundy gowns filed in. All the men moved back and smiled, as if they now felt complete. They certainly looked less frightened.
I was not familiar with the music, but I know good voices when I hear them. Most people can. It is a gift to be able to play your voice like a well-tuned instrument. Most people can't. These young singers can. It stunned me when a young, beardless, thin man opens his mouth and out came a deep bass note. The man and the voice didn't go together. Or when a young woman started to sing and she barely opened her mouth, but a deep soothing alto song issued forth and I wondered where it came from.
The most fascinating musician was the conductor. He too was a thin young man of 30 at most. The program notes said he only graduated from the Moscow Academy of Choral Art as a choral conductor in 2004, and that he is currently a post-graduate student at the academy. It's always fun watching conductors because they are so theatrical. They stand tall, puff out their chest, wag their head, and wave their arms in jubilance when they want the song to get loud and strong, they curl up and writhe in pain when they want the song to be soft. Sometimes they mouth the song with the choir.
But this one, this one also hummed the opening notes for each part of the choir for each song. At first, I looked around to see who's providing the tuning notes. It took a few songs for me to realize it was the conductor. It was distracting. People who sat in the back must have thought so too. They looked around for the source of the humming every time.
But they sang brilliantly. Then I learned this same choir was singing at Roy Thomson Hall the next night with the Moscow Chamber Choir. But Roy Thomson Hall is not a church and going the next night required some planning, and I can't leave The Boy home alone two nights in a row now that I am not travelling. So I went home satisfied with what I fed my soul that night.
I phoned for a ticket and went. I love last minute choral concerts in churches. That's how one should listen to such music - stumble upon it as if called in by song, and that's where music ought to be played - in the place that the music is composed for, with god in attendance.
I acquired this preference in France and Italy. When I travelled all those years ago, I wandered many towns and city neighbourhoods on foot. Invariably, I ended up in a church at the end of the day. I was usually looking for a place to rest before heading back to the hotel. It always surprised me when I came upon a concert. I went it even if I was late.
Once in Dijon, while sitting in an almost empty church, people started coming in and setting up music stands. Before you know it, more people came in and sat down around me. Then musicians picked up their instruments and played. Someone handed me a program of the night's concert. It was Mozart and Bach. For the next two hours, I wondered if I was in heaven, and I was not a fan of classical music in those days.
So St. Anne's Church has a high dome in the middle. It has a colour scheme of pink, blue, and yellow, with harlequin patterns and florals painted around window frames and arches. Seated in a pew, we watched the choir enter the stage area. They were young! Not children, but none of the singers could have been more than 25-years-old. The men in black suits came in first and sang a few songs. Then the women in burgundy gowns filed in. All the men moved back and smiled, as if they now felt complete. They certainly looked less frightened.
I was not familiar with the music, but I know good voices when I hear them. Most people can. It is a gift to be able to play your voice like a well-tuned instrument. Most people can't. These young singers can. It stunned me when a young, beardless, thin man opens his mouth and out came a deep bass note. The man and the voice didn't go together. Or when a young woman started to sing and she barely opened her mouth, but a deep soothing alto song issued forth and I wondered where it came from.
The most fascinating musician was the conductor. He too was a thin young man of 30 at most. The program notes said he only graduated from the Moscow Academy of Choral Art as a choral conductor in 2004, and that he is currently a post-graduate student at the academy. It's always fun watching conductors because they are so theatrical. They stand tall, puff out their chest, wag their head, and wave their arms in jubilance when they want the song to get loud and strong, they curl up and writhe in pain when they want the song to be soft. Sometimes they mouth the song with the choir.
But this one, this one also hummed the opening notes for each part of the choir for each song. At first, I looked around to see who's providing the tuning notes. It took a few songs for me to realize it was the conductor. It was distracting. People who sat in the back must have thought so too. They looked around for the source of the humming every time.
But they sang brilliantly. Then I learned this same choir was singing at Roy Thomson Hall the next night with the Moscow Chamber Choir. But Roy Thomson Hall is not a church and going the next night required some planning, and I can't leave The Boy home alone two nights in a row now that I am not travelling. So I went home satisfied with what I fed my soul that night.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Goldilocks
Mom stayed over last night. I was still downstairs when she went to bed. She had had too much food for dinner so when she fell asleep, she had nightmares. She woke up around 11 pm and called downstairs for me.
Instead of getting back into bed in the spare room I set up for her, she crawled into my bed and slept on my side of the bed! She said she was going to do that, I told her not to. Was I annoyed when I was ready for bed and found her in my place. I slept in the guest room.
So this morning, I tried to tell her the story of Goldilocks and the bears and how one should not invite oneself over, eat the host's food, and sleep in the host's bed. But I couldn't get through the story. She wasn't interested and as I was telling it, I realized nothing bad actually happens to Goldilocks in the story. She got away with taking over the bears' house then ran away.
The Boy left his breakfast untouched, so mom ate it, took a shower, then I drove her home.
Instead of getting back into bed in the spare room I set up for her, she crawled into my bed and slept on my side of the bed! She said she was going to do that, I told her not to. Was I annoyed when I was ready for bed and found her in my place. I slept in the guest room.
So this morning, I tried to tell her the story of Goldilocks and the bears and how one should not invite oneself over, eat the host's food, and sleep in the host's bed. But I couldn't get through the story. She wasn't interested and as I was telling it, I realized nothing bad actually happens to Goldilocks in the story. She got away with taking over the bears' house then ran away.
The Boy left his breakfast untouched, so mom ate it, took a shower, then I drove her home.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Hardware Store
I am installing runners on the stairs at my mom's house. Now that she has tenants in her house, the stairs have become a high traffic area and the broadloom on the stairs have gotten tattered and uncleanable in places.
To remove the 20+ year-old wall-to-wall carpeting, it meant prying the weave out of corners, cutting between the rail rungs, ripping out the under-pad, pulling out all the nails and staples, without getting too soiled and choked up by the dirt uncovered, and without stabbing myself on the little wooden slats of nails that held down the carpeting. Then I had to bang and pry the wooden nail slats up, after which I had to use wood filler to repair the parts of the stairs that got damaged from the prying out of the wooden nail slats.
Then I have to install quarter round where there is a gap between floor and wall. I haven't decided if I'll re-stain and varnish.
I've never done any of this before, nor do I know how to install the runner. But I am sorting things out as I go and relying on the advice of the sales people at Home Depot.
So mom and I went to Home Depot to get the supplies we need today.
I was served by an attractive, delightful man who couldn't do math to help me figure out what length of stair runner I needed. But we worked together. That is, we each made our calculations separately, compared figures, then re-calculated together the ones that were different to arrive at an approximation of the length I needed. I didn't mind that he made mistakes in his math because each time he flashed a smile at me, I melted.
Then he directed me to another man for carpet nails. The nail man explained how many nails I needed for each step and where on the step to hammer in the nails. We calculated I would need almost 300 3/4 inch carpet nails for my job. But Home Depot only sells carpet nails in little boxes of 30. The nail man took me aside and said, Go to Dundas and Runnymede. There is a Rona Hardware there. No, not the one across the street. They sell nails by the pound at the other Rona. You will get what you need at a fraction of the cost here.
While I was being serviced this way, mom was scampering around the carpet area. She wanted a rug for her bed side. She liked a floral one that was actually very pretty. But she fretted and paced about because the rug cost $45. If she chose one that was the same pattern as the stair runner, it would only cost $18. So she muttered and complained about the difference in price.
Finally, I had to put a stop to her fretting. I said, In the blink of an eye, you gave The Boy $40 for no reason yesterday. Now you won't spend $27 extra on yourself to buy a rug for your bedroom that you will stand on each day? She said, But the one that costs less does the same job as the one that costs more. I said, But you like the one that costs more better.
In the end, she relented and took the floral one that she liked better.
At the check out, the cashier scanned our items and stopped at mom's rug. It's $45, she said to make we knew what we were getting into. Now mom piped up and said, Yes we know, but that's the one I want.
So she measured our quarter round and decided to charge us only for half of the wood. She said, They're different lengths so I'll just charge you for the longest ones.
Maybe there is something about two women bumbling about in a hardware store that makes people want to help us out. Maybe it was a Sunday and the store wasn't that busy. But gosh, I had a nice time in the hardware store today.
To remove the 20+ year-old wall-to-wall carpeting, it meant prying the weave out of corners, cutting between the rail rungs, ripping out the under-pad, pulling out all the nails and staples, without getting too soiled and choked up by the dirt uncovered, and without stabbing myself on the little wooden slats of nails that held down the carpeting. Then I had to bang and pry the wooden nail slats up, after which I had to use wood filler to repair the parts of the stairs that got damaged from the prying out of the wooden nail slats.
Then I have to install quarter round where there is a gap between floor and wall. I haven't decided if I'll re-stain and varnish.
I've never done any of this before, nor do I know how to install the runner. But I am sorting things out as I go and relying on the advice of the sales people at Home Depot.
So mom and I went to Home Depot to get the supplies we need today.
I was served by an attractive, delightful man who couldn't do math to help me figure out what length of stair runner I needed. But we worked together. That is, we each made our calculations separately, compared figures, then re-calculated together the ones that were different to arrive at an approximation of the length I needed. I didn't mind that he made mistakes in his math because each time he flashed a smile at me, I melted.
Then he directed me to another man for carpet nails. The nail man explained how many nails I needed for each step and where on the step to hammer in the nails. We calculated I would need almost 300 3/4 inch carpet nails for my job. But Home Depot only sells carpet nails in little boxes of 30. The nail man took me aside and said, Go to Dundas and Runnymede. There is a Rona Hardware there. No, not the one across the street. They sell nails by the pound at the other Rona. You will get what you need at a fraction of the cost here.
While I was being serviced this way, mom was scampering around the carpet area. She wanted a rug for her bed side. She liked a floral one that was actually very pretty. But she fretted and paced about because the rug cost $45. If she chose one that was the same pattern as the stair runner, it would only cost $18. So she muttered and complained about the difference in price.
Finally, I had to put a stop to her fretting. I said, In the blink of an eye, you gave The Boy $40 for no reason yesterday. Now you won't spend $27 extra on yourself to buy a rug for your bedroom that you will stand on each day? She said, But the one that costs less does the same job as the one that costs more. I said, But you like the one that costs more better.
In the end, she relented and took the floral one that she liked better.
At the check out, the cashier scanned our items and stopped at mom's rug. It's $45, she said to make we knew what we were getting into. Now mom piped up and said, Yes we know, but that's the one I want.
So she measured our quarter round and decided to charge us only for half of the wood. She said, They're different lengths so I'll just charge you for the longest ones.
Maybe there is something about two women bumbling about in a hardware store that makes people want to help us out. Maybe it was a Sunday and the store wasn't that busy. But gosh, I had a nice time in the hardware store today.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Is He or Isn't He?
This is The Man's dog in Kabul. He says it comes with the house he's rented but he keeps referring to it as "my dog". So the question about this dog is, is he or isn't he an Afghan Hound?
I think he is.
Compare him with these Afghan Hounds.
A groomed one.
Shaven ones.
Look at their pointy snouts and the woolly feet. The same.
Sis thinks The Man's dog is an Irish Wolfhound, like this one:
I don't think so. Look how round this dog's snout is.
What do you think? Is Scraggy up there an Afghan Hound? What do you think, Sil? Is Scraggy the Jacob of Kabul or what?
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Still Adjusting
I am having a mild case of post-travel blues. The trip, especially the march, was so intense that I feel somewhat unanchored even though I'm home. That, and the jet lag I have yet to overcome. I am still falling asleep in the early evening and waking up in the middle of the night.
But apparently, what I am feeling is nothing compared to what Jill felt. She was so much more involved in the march and India than I was. It was good to talk to her today to share how we feel. To her credit, she has set up a small company where she will train non-profit organizations to set up infrastructure and do capacity building. And she's written 50 pages of the book she wants to do on the march and India's land issues.
I've also been in touch with two people I met on the march. I had promised to get back to them with some information. It's good to touch base with people from the march. I think we all needed the connection with each other to prove what we experienced was not a dream.
On the home front, it's been surprisingly busy. For one thing, I am ripping out the broadloom on the stairs at my mother's house, a job that will resume this weekend because it is surprisingly noisy. There are little slats of wood with nails hammered into each step to hold down the carpet. to pry these slats off the steps requires much banging. So I have to do it on the weekend when her tenants are out and not working from home.
I have resumed pilates. I love being back at it. My increased limberness and mobility probably saved me from a worse injury today. In the parking lot of Loblaws, I walked over the painted yellow arrows that direct cars to go straight, turn left, or turn right. Who knew these painted arrows are slippery when wet.
So this afternoon, I am home home nursing my swollen knee from falling in the parking lot. It's also the first opportunity I've had in a long time to sit, drink tea, and read.
Already, I need to regroup so I can start again to get back to normal.
But apparently, what I am feeling is nothing compared to what Jill felt. She was so much more involved in the march and India than I was. It was good to talk to her today to share how we feel. To her credit, she has set up a small company where she will train non-profit organizations to set up infrastructure and do capacity building. And she's written 50 pages of the book she wants to do on the march and India's land issues.
I've also been in touch with two people I met on the march. I had promised to get back to them with some information. It's good to touch base with people from the march. I think we all needed the connection with each other to prove what we experienced was not a dream.
On the home front, it's been surprisingly busy. For one thing, I am ripping out the broadloom on the stairs at my mother's house, a job that will resume this weekend because it is surprisingly noisy. There are little slats of wood with nails hammered into each step to hold down the carpet. to pry these slats off the steps requires much banging. So I have to do it on the weekend when her tenants are out and not working from home.
I have resumed pilates. I love being back at it. My increased limberness and mobility probably saved me from a worse injury today. In the parking lot of Loblaws, I walked over the painted yellow arrows that direct cars to go straight, turn left, or turn right. Who knew these painted arrows are slippery when wet.
So this afternoon, I am home home nursing my swollen knee from falling in the parking lot. It's also the first opportunity I've had in a long time to sit, drink tea, and read.
Already, I need to regroup so I can start again to get back to normal.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Retail Therapy
At the end of the day yesterday, Lindsey said, Now you know you're no longer in India.
I went out with three friends to Sherway Gardens. Lindsey's sister-in-law works at The Gap and this is staff appreciation weekend. With a transferable coupon in hand, we got 30% off everything at The Gap, even on sale items. So we bought stuff. I was looking for a non-T-shirt. I bought a plaid shirt, a long down coat, socks, and handsome umbrellas. Lindsey's husband, Tony, even joined us for a bit as he was finishing work in the area, en route to another job.
When we passed by a store called Bombay, they too had a 30% off sale on everything. Sandra and Lindsey bought Christmas presents for their moms and I bought Christmas ornaments. Then Sandra went to Ikea for a foldout bed. It's Ikea. We bought things we didn't need. No, the only thing I needed was shelving liner.
I hate shopping, you understand, especially for clothes. Shopping is just not a thing I do for leisure. When I really need something, I dash into a store, find what I need, then dash out, all within 10 minutes. So yesterday was an unusual day, and it was highly enjoyable, though exhausting. Fulfilling the cliche, we shopped till we dropped.
And Lindsey was right. I am no longer in India. Bringing my mind home in a mall with retail therapy. Only in North America.
I went out with three friends to Sherway Gardens. Lindsey's sister-in-law works at The Gap and this is staff appreciation weekend. With a transferable coupon in hand, we got 30% off everything at The Gap, even on sale items. So we bought stuff. I was looking for a non-T-shirt. I bought a plaid shirt, a long down coat, socks, and handsome umbrellas. Lindsey's husband, Tony, even joined us for a bit as he was finishing work in the area, en route to another job.
When we passed by a store called Bombay, they too had a 30% off sale on everything. Sandra and Lindsey bought Christmas presents for their moms and I bought Christmas ornaments. Then Sandra went to Ikea for a foldout bed. It's Ikea. We bought things we didn't need. No, the only thing I needed was shelving liner.
I hate shopping, you understand, especially for clothes. Shopping is just not a thing I do for leisure. When I really need something, I dash into a store, find what I need, then dash out, all within 10 minutes. So yesterday was an unusual day, and it was highly enjoyable, though exhausting. Fulfilling the cliche, we shopped till we dropped.
And Lindsey was right. I am no longer in India. Bringing my mind home in a mall with retail therapy. Only in North America.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The Older We Get...
The Boy said, Hey let's have dinner out Friday night. I said I can't, because I have my book club meeting Friday night. He said, How can that be? You just got back from India and you've already got plans?
That's the thing about being an adult. You always have plans. You try to carry them out with focus and order. While you carry out those plans, you also try to live in the moment and appreciate what you are doing, what you are experiencing, observing life around you.
Versus being a child or a teenage. Kids live in the moment. While living in the moment, they try to make plans. Their plans are invariably fluid and last minute. Living in the moment, kids seem forgetful of responsibility and oblivious to life around them.
And what about when you get much older, like after you retire. Literature tells us there are at least two ways to be. You can be a curmudgeonly old coot, full of bitterness, anger, and rigidity. Or you can be lively and full of grace, self-accepting, generous, and forgiving. You can live in the moment and make plans at the same time, and not get upset if the plans fall to shits.
That's the kind of old woman I want to be. Because that's the mindset I need to have to trek the Himalayas. My Himalayan guide, uncomplicated Mohamed, said you have to be physically fit and mentally unburdened to do the Himalayas. If you were not physically fit, you just wouldn't be able to do the trek that requires climbing up and down the mountains, sweating during the day, and freezing in the night. If you were fit but mentally preoccupied, you would be wasting your trek because you would be too distracted to appreciate the effort you made to see the beauty of the lakes high up in the mountains and clouds.
The Man and I have talked about trekking the Himalayas in Nepal. Oh he's afraid of heights and I am afraid of success. But think what a project we have - get fit, grow more graceful, overcome fear. I don't think life will be boring for us even if he is in Kabul right now.
That's the thing about being an adult. You always have plans. You try to carry them out with focus and order. While you carry out those plans, you also try to live in the moment and appreciate what you are doing, what you are experiencing, observing life around you.
Versus being a child or a teenage. Kids live in the moment. While living in the moment, they try to make plans. Their plans are invariably fluid and last minute. Living in the moment, kids seem forgetful of responsibility and oblivious to life around them.
And what about when you get much older, like after you retire. Literature tells us there are at least two ways to be. You can be a curmudgeonly old coot, full of bitterness, anger, and rigidity. Or you can be lively and full of grace, self-accepting, generous, and forgiving. You can live in the moment and make plans at the same time, and not get upset if the plans fall to shits.
That's the kind of old woman I want to be. Because that's the mindset I need to have to trek the Himalayas. My Himalayan guide, uncomplicated Mohamed, said you have to be physically fit and mentally unburdened to do the Himalayas. If you were not physically fit, you just wouldn't be able to do the trek that requires climbing up and down the mountains, sweating during the day, and freezing in the night. If you were fit but mentally preoccupied, you would be wasting your trek because you would be too distracted to appreciate the effort you made to see the beauty of the lakes high up in the mountains and clouds.
The Man and I have talked about trekking the Himalayas in Nepal. Oh he's afraid of heights and I am afraid of success. But think what a project we have - get fit, grow more graceful, overcome fear. I don't think life will be boring for us even if he is in Kabul right now.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Home
My body is back in Toronto, but my mind is suspended somewhere between home and India. I hope it doesn't take too long to follow.
On the way home from the airport, the Toronto highways were traffic free, the air smogless, the roads quiet. The sky was slight cloudy, casting that muted light on everything. After Delhi, that calm felt a bit surreal, like we were the few remaining survivors post apocalypse.
It's mid-Autumn here. Today, we stomped on carpets of yellow wet leaves outside while bare branches poked through most trees. I wore my down-filled jacket. The Boy had already turned on the furnace. Half a world away where my travelling companions are, and where I was two short days ago, it's 30C, noisy and dusty. You haggle through every exchange, elbow your way to the head of a queue, and jump out of the way of cars, buses, rickshaws, bicycles, cows and dogs.
The strangest feeling was using the keys to access the different parts of my life, like putting a key into my front door - I wasn't sure which key to use, like putting a key into the car - I had to think twice before knowing which way to turn to ignite the engine.
I have been welcomed home by family and friends, I have shopped for groceries, I have made The Boy get a haircut, I have identified a stench in the kitchen as dead onions on a shelf and cleaned out that cupboard, I have cleaned out moldy food from the fridge, I have exchanged e-mails with some of the people I met, I have had dinner with Sis, I've scrubbed one of the bathrooms clean, and I went to Joe Fresh and bought a red hoodie. I have much to do to prepare the house for winter. The Boy has said several times, It's good to have you home although I had a great time while you were away.
Yes, I am home.
On the way home from the airport, the Toronto highways were traffic free, the air smogless, the roads quiet. The sky was slight cloudy, casting that muted light on everything. After Delhi, that calm felt a bit surreal, like we were the few remaining survivors post apocalypse.
It's mid-Autumn here. Today, we stomped on carpets of yellow wet leaves outside while bare branches poked through most trees. I wore my down-filled jacket. The Boy had already turned on the furnace. Half a world away where my travelling companions are, and where I was two short days ago, it's 30C, noisy and dusty. You haggle through every exchange, elbow your way to the head of a queue, and jump out of the way of cars, buses, rickshaws, bicycles, cows and dogs.
The strangest feeling was using the keys to access the different parts of my life, like putting a key into my front door - I wasn't sure which key to use, like putting a key into the car - I had to think twice before knowing which way to turn to ignite the engine.
I have been welcomed home by family and friends, I have shopped for groceries, I have made The Boy get a haircut, I have identified a stench in the kitchen as dead onions on a shelf and cleaned out that cupboard, I have cleaned out moldy food from the fridge, I have exchanged e-mails with some of the people I met, I have had dinner with Sis, I've scrubbed one of the bathrooms clean, and I went to Joe Fresh and bought a red hoodie. I have much to do to prepare the house for winter. The Boy has said several times, It's good to have you home although I had a great time while you were away.
Yes, I am home.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Taking Along Some Of The Wild
I am so glad I got in one more canoe trip to Algonquin before India. This was my first Fall wilderness camping trip in about 20 years.
The leaves are brilliant this year, stunningly so... All shades of red, pink, crimson, orange, and yellow. When you come around the bend in the road and a vista of trees on fire fill your car window, you can't help but gasp and stop in mid-sentence of whatever conversation you were having.
The first night of our trip was cold. It was so cold that by 10 p.m., we were all wearing hats, gloves, and winter jackets around the campfire. It was so cold that when you walked away from the campfire, you could see your breath, but when you get too close to the fire, you got smoke in your eyes. It was so cold that my friend insisted I take one of the two sleeping bags she brought up so I can keep warm. I had only brought a light one. She had a warm sleeping bag, plus her winter coat and a heavy wool sweater.
The weather was glorious all weekend, but too cold to swim. I only had to get my feet wet before the rest of my body objected. We canoed each day and on Sunday, we went on a 10 km hike over buried railroad tracks. You can almost hear the train coming as the path wend through forests and over a lake.
I feel invigorated and am ready to take on India. I invite you to come with me as I try to document my trip here:
The Road To Delhi
Hope to see you on the road.
The leaves are brilliant this year, stunningly so... All shades of red, pink, crimson, orange, and yellow. When you come around the bend in the road and a vista of trees on fire fill your car window, you can't help but gasp and stop in mid-sentence of whatever conversation you were having.
The first night of our trip was cold. It was so cold that by 10 p.m., we were all wearing hats, gloves, and winter jackets around the campfire. It was so cold that when you walked away from the campfire, you could see your breath, but when you get too close to the fire, you got smoke in your eyes. It was so cold that my friend insisted I take one of the two sleeping bags she brought up so I can keep warm. I had only brought a light one. She had a warm sleeping bag, plus her winter coat and a heavy wool sweater.
The weather was glorious all weekend, but too cold to swim. I only had to get my feet wet before the rest of my body objected. We canoed each day and on Sunday, we went on a 10 km hike over buried railroad tracks. You can almost hear the train coming as the path wend through forests and over a lake.
I feel invigorated and am ready to take on India. I invite you to come with me as I try to document my trip here:
The Road To Delhi
Hope to see you on the road.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Inside The Rain
Sometimes, when it's raining, if it's a light rain and the sun is out, you can look through the mist and see the rainbow.
Our timing is such that The Man just confirmed his next contract. He will be working in Kabul, Afghanistan. We debated whether he should accept the contract. All the information we have and the people we've talked to suggest Kabul is safe. The trouble is in Kandahar, with military personnel the target.
Still, I am just a bit nervous. Things can turn on a dime, especially where the Taliban is concerned.
But The Man has an opportunity to take part in the reconstruction of a country. He wants the experience, to be part of history. He wants to be an international consultant so that when we retire, we can experience different parts of the world with knowledge and purpose.
So I leave for India October 3, The Man leaves for Afghanistan October 4. These are heady times, as Sis says.
The Boy is delighted. He's ditched his parents at last. He says he's looking forward to managing on his own, like shop for groceries, cook, vacuum, do the laundry. He will likely have different friends stay with him.
For my peace of mind, I've arranged for him to spend the night at Bro's house every Sunday. That way, he's with family at least once a week. Sis has offered to have dinner with him once a week. Sil and friends have offered to check in on him often. He also has the option of calling on Mom, who is willing to come live with him if he wants. But he says he wants to try living on his own, as practice for university next year.
So can I see the rainbow yet? I think so. The Man gets to participate in rebuilding a country and firming up his international credentials as a communications strategist, I make my foray into international development work, explore the unknown, and lose weight in the process (I'll be so upset if I come back fatter), The Boy gets a taste of total freedom, independence, and responsibility. It's a grand adventure for all of us.
I think we will all come through fine and be better for it. We can do this because we are a secure family with strong extended family ties and a supportive network of friends.
It's raining a bit, but the sun is shining, and it's a beautiful rainbow inside this Autumn mist.
Our timing is such that The Man just confirmed his next contract. He will be working in Kabul, Afghanistan. We debated whether he should accept the contract. All the information we have and the people we've talked to suggest Kabul is safe. The trouble is in Kandahar, with military personnel the target.
Still, I am just a bit nervous. Things can turn on a dime, especially where the Taliban is concerned.
But The Man has an opportunity to take part in the reconstruction of a country. He wants the experience, to be part of history. He wants to be an international consultant so that when we retire, we can experience different parts of the world with knowledge and purpose.
So I leave for India October 3, The Man leaves for Afghanistan October 4. These are heady times, as Sis says.
The Boy is delighted. He's ditched his parents at last. He says he's looking forward to managing on his own, like shop for groceries, cook, vacuum, do the laundry. He will likely have different friends stay with him.
For my peace of mind, I've arranged for him to spend the night at Bro's house every Sunday. That way, he's with family at least once a week. Sis has offered to have dinner with him once a week. Sil and friends have offered to check in on him often. He also has the option of calling on Mom, who is willing to come live with him if he wants. But he says he wants to try living on his own, as practice for university next year.
So can I see the rainbow yet? I think so. The Man gets to participate in rebuilding a country and firming up his international credentials as a communications strategist, I make my foray into international development work, explore the unknown, and lose weight in the process (I'll be so upset if I come back fatter), The Boy gets a taste of total freedom, independence, and responsibility. It's a grand adventure for all of us.
I think we will all come through fine and be better for it. We can do this because we are a secure family with strong extended family ties and a supportive network of friends.
It's raining a bit, but the sun is shining, and it's a beautiful rainbow inside this Autumn mist.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Seventeen
Seventeen years ago today, I had a date with Bro Bro for lunch. He was going to accompany me to my doctor's appointment, then we would go eat. I was nine months pregnant, due to give birth in two days.
The night before our luncheon, I got up as usual at 3 a.m. to use the washroom. I had been getting up at 3 a.m. for about 5 months by that time. On this night, I had the longest pee ever. I had no control over the stream. When it was finally done, I crawled back into bed and shook The Man awake. I said, "I think my water just broke."
He said, "Will it still be broken in the morning?"
"I guess."
"Let's deal with it then." Then he rolled over back to sleep.
Lying in bed, I tried to recall what my doctor told me about water breaking. I was pretty sure I was supposed to go to the hospital right away. But did my water break? I hadn't splattered all over the supermarket floor or soaked the bedding like I had read about women doing. I thought, maybe this baby is just extremely considerate and let me break my water during my pee. No, no, my water didn't break. Where's the mucus plug that was supposed to show two days before? I hadn't noticed being unplugged. So I went back to sleep despite muscles tightening around my back and abdomen.
At the doctor's office the next morning, I told him I was leaking. He examined a sample of my fluid and said, "This is text book amniotic fluid. I have never seen such perfect fluid." Then he called all the doctors, nurses, and medical trainees into his office so they can look into the microscope to see the perfect sample.
When done, he said to me, "Yes, your water broke and we need to check you into the hospital right away. You should have come in last night."
Bro Bro took me into the maternity ward then phoned The Man.
This is what I remember of that afternoon: I was dilating too slowly so the doctor prepared to induce labour. But before they could apply their induction procedure, I went into labour on my own. The contractions came fast and furious. The Man called for drugs twice. I received two epidural top ups. I watched the needle on the pain monitor go off the metre with each contraction.
Even drugged, my pain was piercing and excruciating. I remember thinking, if this is the olden days, I would be one of the statistics of women who died during childbirth. My doctor ordered me several times to open my eyes and push. I remember weighing which I wanted more - die right then or live to raise the baby.
Then suddenly, I felt two bumps glide through me and the pain stopped. I heard, It's a boy. They took away a thing covered in white. The doctor in residence continued pressing down on my abdomen. I said, "What happened? The pain stopped. Was that the baby? What are you doing? Is it over?"
He said, "That's the baby. They just want to make sure he's breathing properly. I am helping your placenta fall out."
Then I heard a baby cry in the room.
"What's that?" I said.
They placed on my chest this little thing with most of the white stuff wiped off. His eyes were wide open, looking around. I looked at him, trying to weigh which was more pronounced - my disbelief at his existence or my lack of feelings for him. "How come he's not wrinkly?" I asked no one in particular.
My doctor said, "He's beautifully smooth. He looks like a cesarean baby."
The resident was filling out a form. He said, "Check. Check. Birth...uneventful."
"Surely that was a huge event," I said, referring more to what I just went through than defence of the baby I didn't quite have feelings for.
"That means nothing bad happened to you or the baby during birth. Uneventful is good."
They took the baby away again to clean him up, weigh him, prick his heel, etc. When they brought the baby back to me, he was swaddled in blue flannel, with his arms tucked in. "He just got born, don't tie him up," I said to the nurse.
"That's so he can't scratch his face."
Then they wheeled us to our room. Lying on the stretcher, I looked closely at the baby beside me and thought, I could easily be a surrogate and bear a baby for someone. I have no feelings for him.
That night, I was wide away. At exactly 3 a.m. I heard a baby howl from the nursery. I don't know how I knew, but I knew that was my baby crying. Then I heard wheels being rolled down the hall and the baby's cry coming closer. I thought, that's my baby for sure and they are bringing him to me. The nurse came into my room, lifted the baby out of his bed, and put him beside me.
"I'll set you up so you can try to nurse him," she said.
The baby cried and cried on my bed. I soothed his furrowed brows with my finger and said, "Hey there baby. Hello and welcome to my world. If I run a few names by you, will you give me a sign which is yours?" It was an astonishing thing. The baby stopped crying when he heard my voice. The nurse froze for a moment to stare at us. He seemed to recognize my voice and looked around as if searching for me. I think that was the moment I felt the connection with him and called him son.
Happy 17th, son!
The night before our luncheon, I got up as usual at 3 a.m. to use the washroom. I had been getting up at 3 a.m. for about 5 months by that time. On this night, I had the longest pee ever. I had no control over the stream. When it was finally done, I crawled back into bed and shook The Man awake. I said, "I think my water just broke."
He said, "Will it still be broken in the morning?"
"I guess."
"Let's deal with it then." Then he rolled over back to sleep.
Lying in bed, I tried to recall what my doctor told me about water breaking. I was pretty sure I was supposed to go to the hospital right away. But did my water break? I hadn't splattered all over the supermarket floor or soaked the bedding like I had read about women doing. I thought, maybe this baby is just extremely considerate and let me break my water during my pee. No, no, my water didn't break. Where's the mucus plug that was supposed to show two days before? I hadn't noticed being unplugged. So I went back to sleep despite muscles tightening around my back and abdomen.
At the doctor's office the next morning, I told him I was leaking. He examined a sample of my fluid and said, "This is text book amniotic fluid. I have never seen such perfect fluid." Then he called all the doctors, nurses, and medical trainees into his office so they can look into the microscope to see the perfect sample.
When done, he said to me, "Yes, your water broke and we need to check you into the hospital right away. You should have come in last night."
Bro Bro took me into the maternity ward then phoned The Man.
This is what I remember of that afternoon: I was dilating too slowly so the doctor prepared to induce labour. But before they could apply their induction procedure, I went into labour on my own. The contractions came fast and furious. The Man called for drugs twice. I received two epidural top ups. I watched the needle on the pain monitor go off the metre with each contraction.
Even drugged, my pain was piercing and excruciating. I remember thinking, if this is the olden days, I would be one of the statistics of women who died during childbirth. My doctor ordered me several times to open my eyes and push. I remember weighing which I wanted more - die right then or live to raise the baby.
Then suddenly, I felt two bumps glide through me and the pain stopped. I heard, It's a boy. They took away a thing covered in white. The doctor in residence continued pressing down on my abdomen. I said, "What happened? The pain stopped. Was that the baby? What are you doing? Is it over?"
He said, "That's the baby. They just want to make sure he's breathing properly. I am helping your placenta fall out."
Then I heard a baby cry in the room.
"What's that?" I said.
They placed on my chest this little thing with most of the white stuff wiped off. His eyes were wide open, looking around. I looked at him, trying to weigh which was more pronounced - my disbelief at his existence or my lack of feelings for him. "How come he's not wrinkly?" I asked no one in particular.
My doctor said, "He's beautifully smooth. He looks like a cesarean baby."
The resident was filling out a form. He said, "Check. Check. Birth...uneventful."
"Surely that was a huge event," I said, referring more to what I just went through than defence of the baby I didn't quite have feelings for.
"That means nothing bad happened to you or the baby during birth. Uneventful is good."
They took the baby away again to clean him up, weigh him, prick his heel, etc. When they brought the baby back to me, he was swaddled in blue flannel, with his arms tucked in. "He just got born, don't tie him up," I said to the nurse.
"That's so he can't scratch his face."
Then they wheeled us to our room. Lying on the stretcher, I looked closely at the baby beside me and thought, I could easily be a surrogate and bear a baby for someone. I have no feelings for him.
That night, I was wide away. At exactly 3 a.m. I heard a baby howl from the nursery. I don't know how I knew, but I knew that was my baby crying. Then I heard wheels being rolled down the hall and the baby's cry coming closer. I thought, that's my baby for sure and they are bringing him to me. The nurse came into my room, lifted the baby out of his bed, and put him beside me.
"I'll set you up so you can try to nurse him," she said.
The baby cried and cried on my bed. I soothed his furrowed brows with my finger and said, "Hey there baby. Hello and welcome to my world. If I run a few names by you, will you give me a sign which is yours?" It was an astonishing thing. The baby stopped crying when he heard my voice. The nurse froze for a moment to stare at us. He seemed to recognize my voice and looked around as if searching for me. I think that was the moment I felt the connection with him and called him son.
Happy 17th, son!
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Packing
I am packing for India. Yes, I have to pack now, so I know what size backpack to use and whether I need to buy a new one. There is little time to prepare. I am hosting my book club on September 28, leaving for a Fall canoe trip September 29, coming back October 1, gathering last minute things October 2, then getting on the plane to India October 3.
But as I pack, I wondered if Fryslan is still in Canada and how his trip went. Lo and behold, he has left a message. Thank you. Yes, next time, a cottage in Georgian Bay where scenes from Group of Seven paintings come alive, like these trees, taken at a friend's cottage this summer.
As I pack, I am also thinking, How will I benefit from this trip to India? And seriously, the answer is not profound. Top of mind is, I really hope I lose a lot of weight. I think the cost of enrolling in a fat farm for a month is much more than what I am paying for this trip. So I have simply found a more interesting and bang-for-the-buck way of forced weight loss.
How decadent this Western-speak is, so telling of the excess in our culture. Yet, I won't be guilted into giving away all my possessions on the march or to telemarketers looking for donations. Tricked into doing so maybe, but not knowingly and willingly hand over all in atonement for our society's sins. That is not my cross to bear.
As I pack, I think, will The Man and The Boy be alright in my absence? The Man is on the verge of confirming his next contract. What if it falls through? What if it's a go? What of it? Do I think I am so essential to their well-being or do I just want to matter?
And finally, as I pack, I wonder what The Exchange is doing. Should I tell him where I am going and ask him to join me? Will his mom let him? Ha ha, that is too funny. Or should I casually stop by France to see him on the way home? Oh that's funny too. And such naughty naughty thoughts. I'm no Steford Wife, that's for sure. More like a Desperate Housewife. Ok, I'll stop.
How my mind flits.
But as I pack, I wondered if Fryslan is still in Canada and how his trip went. Lo and behold, he has left a message. Thank you. Yes, next time, a cottage in Georgian Bay where scenes from Group of Seven paintings come alive, like these trees, taken at a friend's cottage this summer.
As I pack, I am also thinking, How will I benefit from this trip to India? And seriously, the answer is not profound. Top of mind is, I really hope I lose a lot of weight. I think the cost of enrolling in a fat farm for a month is much more than what I am paying for this trip. So I have simply found a more interesting and bang-for-the-buck way of forced weight loss.
How decadent this Western-speak is, so telling of the excess in our culture. Yet, I won't be guilted into giving away all my possessions on the march or to telemarketers looking for donations. Tricked into doing so maybe, but not knowingly and willingly hand over all in atonement for our society's sins. That is not my cross to bear.
As I pack, I think, will The Man and The Boy be alright in my absence? The Man is on the verge of confirming his next contract. What if it falls through? What if it's a go? What of it? Do I think I am so essential to their well-being or do I just want to matter?
And finally, as I pack, I wonder what The Exchange is doing. Should I tell him where I am going and ask him to join me? Will his mom let him? Ha ha, that is too funny. Or should I casually stop by France to see him on the way home? Oh that's funny too. And such naughty naughty thoughts. I'm no Steford Wife, that's for sure. More like a Desperate Housewife. Ok, I'll stop.
How my mind flits.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Looking For Heaven In Hell
My ear perked up this afternoon when I heard a commentator on the radio say...
Which made me think of the book I'm reading, Sarah Dunant's The Birth of Venus - Love and Death in Florence. A conversation between two characters went something like this...
I think it's true that we accept paintings of heaven readily whereas we stare at and study paintings of hell, sometimes mesmerized by the images of suffering and torment.
Later, I said to The Man, My going to India is a whimsical thing. I have no reason to go except I have never been and the opportunity is there. He said, Your going is not so much a flight of fancy as a leap of faith. It requires courage to go. You don't know what you will get out of it till you go.
It's true that I will have done something I've never done before and I may discover something I didn't know I needed to discover.
But India? Culture of female oppression in the heat and dust of corruption, over-population, and poverty. It will be like stepping into hell. Yet, I am going. It's almost a natural unfolding that is hurling me to India, a place I have never desired to visit. I think I am going to a portal of hell to look for wonder and awe. Maybe in the land where humanity brims over, I might get a peek at the sublime, or at least be reminded of the earthly pleasures I have.
If you put a woman in a fish costume and throw her in the water, you can choose to believe she's a woman in a fish costume or you can believe she's a mermaid. Most of us want something beyond us, something mysterious in our lives. So we always choose to believe she's a mermaid even though we know she's a woman in a fish costume. We would rather be full of wonder and awe.
Which made me think of the book I'm reading, Sarah Dunant's The Birth of Venus - Love and Death in Florence. A conversation between two characters went something like this...
...hell always holds more fascination than heaven...it is because we have all felt pain whereas it is harder for us to understand the sublime...The pain of hell reminds us of earthly pleasure.
I think it's true that we accept paintings of heaven readily whereas we stare at and study paintings of hell, sometimes mesmerized by the images of suffering and torment.
Later, I said to The Man, My going to India is a whimsical thing. I have no reason to go except I have never been and the opportunity is there. He said, Your going is not so much a flight of fancy as a leap of faith. It requires courage to go. You don't know what you will get out of it till you go.
It's true that I will have done something I've never done before and I may discover something I didn't know I needed to discover.
But India? Culture of female oppression in the heat and dust of corruption, over-population, and poverty. It will be like stepping into hell. Yet, I am going. It's almost a natural unfolding that is hurling me to India, a place I have never desired to visit. I think I am going to a portal of hell to look for wonder and awe. Maybe in the land where humanity brims over, I might get a peek at the sublime, or at least be reminded of the earthly pleasures I have.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Absurdity On Absurdity
Those damn bureaucrats. Their love of rules have supplanted common sense and judicious human interaction.
I applied for my Indian visa yesterday. The Indian Consulate's website is an overlay of texts. That is, their web master screwed up with the text display so several sets of information are displayed in the same space. I viewed the page on a Mac, then on a PC. Same thing. What instructions I could extract was confusing. One of the instructions was to send the application form in by mail or courier.
I went to deliver my application. At reception, a fat man was on the phone. A real courier got off the elevator and joined the wait. The man on the phone ignored us. His phone manners and tone suggested haughty arrogance. Ignorance and arrogance, a lethal combination that will bring a bad end. A woman then came into the reception cubicle. I pushed my envelope through the slot.
"Are you a courier?" she asked.
"I am delivering it."
"I can't accept this. You have to mail it in or courier it in."
"I am my own courier."
"I need to sign for it and have a tracking number."
"But I am delivering this so I know you have received it. I won't need to track it."
"I still need a tracking number to record it in my book."
"You need a number? Here, I can make one up for you right now and you can sign here to acknowledge receipt."
"Madam, we won't accept this from you," she shouted angrily and marched away to the far end of the cubicle to get away from me.
The courier submitted his package and the man on the phone signed for it. I started to cause a scene when a group of consulate staff came out. Perfect, I thought, I could create a really big scene. Then better judgement kicked in. They could tag me and deny me visa. Or they could grant me visa and make sure I meet up with an accident in India. And I would feel more exasperated if she still doesn't accept my delivery, after having done all that emoting and expended all that energy creating a scene. So I got into the elevator with the courier to go back down.
I asked the courier to deliver my envelope for me. He was sympathetic and offered to give me a blank way bill so The Man could pretend to be a courier to deliver my envelope. I wouldn't be able to go back and act like a courier because the woman at reception had already seen me. We had a good laugh over the ludicrousness of the consulate policy. After talking with him about how to fake being a courier, I decided I couldn't put him in a compromising position by using his way bill. So I offered to hire his service the proper way.
He placed a call to his company. After sorting out with the dispatcher I really did want my envelope picked up and dropped off at the same address, that the driver was already with me, that I really would pay for this one-hour service, she charged me $24 for the courier run. All this so the stupid woman at reception can stick to her policy and cover her ass. With bureaucracy like that, no wonder the poor have no property rights in India.
Now I am really mad at the Consulate-General of India in Toronto. It's not good to get me mad because I am not pure of heart. I don't like people and situations that bring out the worst in me and remind me just how petty and base I can be. (That's why I loved The Exchange; he brought out the best in me.) I wish ill on those who piss me off. Fie, fie and death to you, woman at reception. I am now even thinking of becoming a racist. This is not pretty.
I applied for my Indian visa yesterday. The Indian Consulate's website is an overlay of texts. That is, their web master screwed up with the text display so several sets of information are displayed in the same space. I viewed the page on a Mac, then on a PC. Same thing. What instructions I could extract was confusing. One of the instructions was to send the application form in by mail or courier.
I went to deliver my application. At reception, a fat man was on the phone. A real courier got off the elevator and joined the wait. The man on the phone ignored us. His phone manners and tone suggested haughty arrogance. Ignorance and arrogance, a lethal combination that will bring a bad end. A woman then came into the reception cubicle. I pushed my envelope through the slot.
"Are you a courier?" she asked.
"I am delivering it."
"I can't accept this. You have to mail it in or courier it in."
"I am my own courier."
"I need to sign for it and have a tracking number."
"But I am delivering this so I know you have received it. I won't need to track it."
"I still need a tracking number to record it in my book."
"You need a number? Here, I can make one up for you right now and you can sign here to acknowledge receipt."
"Madam, we won't accept this from you," she shouted angrily and marched away to the far end of the cubicle to get away from me.
The courier submitted his package and the man on the phone signed for it. I started to cause a scene when a group of consulate staff came out. Perfect, I thought, I could create a really big scene. Then better judgement kicked in. They could tag me and deny me visa. Or they could grant me visa and make sure I meet up with an accident in India. And I would feel more exasperated if she still doesn't accept my delivery, after having done all that emoting and expended all that energy creating a scene. So I got into the elevator with the courier to go back down.
I asked the courier to deliver my envelope for me. He was sympathetic and offered to give me a blank way bill so The Man could pretend to be a courier to deliver my envelope. I wouldn't be able to go back and act like a courier because the woman at reception had already seen me. We had a good laugh over the ludicrousness of the consulate policy. After talking with him about how to fake being a courier, I decided I couldn't put him in a compromising position by using his way bill. So I offered to hire his service the proper way.
He placed a call to his company. After sorting out with the dispatcher I really did want my envelope picked up and dropped off at the same address, that the driver was already with me, that I really would pay for this one-hour service, she charged me $24 for the courier run. All this so the stupid woman at reception can stick to her policy and cover her ass. With bureaucracy like that, no wonder the poor have no property rights in India.
Now I am really mad at the Consulate-General of India in Toronto. It's not good to get me mad because I am not pure of heart. I don't like people and situations that bring out the worst in me and remind me just how petty and base I can be. (That's why I loved The Exchange; he brought out the best in me.) I wish ill on those who piss me off. Fie, fie and death to you, woman at reception. I am now even thinking of becoming a racist. This is not pretty.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Angels Trumpet
We have angel trumpets in the back yard. They are large, white, bell-shaped flowers that bloom for one day then wilt. The flowers are apparently poisonous. Cats and raccoons stay clear away and so should kids.
I like to attribute the appearances of a yellow finch and a chickadee, my all-time favourite birds, to the angel trumpets. I like to think the trumpets have called them into our garden. I like to think angels are guarding our house and watching over us.
I want to think this because I've just confirmed my flight to India. I leave October 3 and am booked to return October 31, with an option to extend my stay. My ticket is good for one year. Hmm, a year in India...
I'm told that on the road to Delhi, foreign guests will have handwashing access to water only. That's how I will brush my teeth, bathe, wash my hair, and wash my clothes. Washrooms may mean behind a rock. I will really have to keep up with those kegel exercises to reduce the need for washroom breaks. Good thing I am back in pilates this month. I can carry a small knapsack on the march. Will I fit in travel documents, books, clothing, extra shoes, toiletry, medication, skin care products, make up, and perfume? The temperature is expected to be between 28C and 30C during the 30 days of the march. No daily showers, eh?
I hope the road to Delhi will not be one of those places where angels fear to tread. In fact, I hope one of those angels with the trumpets leave the garden and follow me to India.
I like to attribute the appearances of a yellow finch and a chickadee, my all-time favourite birds, to the angel trumpets. I like to think the trumpets have called them into our garden. I like to think angels are guarding our house and watching over us.
I want to think this because I've just confirmed my flight to India. I leave October 3 and am booked to return October 31, with an option to extend my stay. My ticket is good for one year. Hmm, a year in India...
I'm told that on the road to Delhi, foreign guests will have handwashing access to water only. That's how I will brush my teeth, bathe, wash my hair, and wash my clothes. Washrooms may mean behind a rock. I will really have to keep up with those kegel exercises to reduce the need for washroom breaks. Good thing I am back in pilates this month. I can carry a small knapsack on the march. Will I fit in travel documents, books, clothing, extra shoes, toiletry, medication, skin care products, make up, and perfume? The temperature is expected to be between 28C and 30C during the 30 days of the march. No daily showers, eh?
I hope the road to Delhi will not be one of those places where angels fear to tread. In fact, I hope one of those angels with the trumpets leave the garden and follow me to India.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Politics Of My Own
The provincial election has started. In every election, I get recruited to help the NDP candidate in our ward. They must have my phone number in their book somewhere. You help out in one campaign and they pass your phone number to other NDP candidates for every election. I don't really mind. Though I have not always voted NDP, their stands and views are most closely aligned with mine.
In municipal elections, the candidate's party does not formally enter the race so it matters more how I feel about the candidate. In provincial and federal elections however, I do try to weigh the candidate and party politics.
When called to help out in this provincial election, I said yes even though I don't know the candidate and have never heard of him. I was a lazy ass that day. And I don't care for the incumbent, whose only "work" I have seen are chocolate bars slipped into the mail slot of households that put up Christmas lights. He has the poorest attendance record of all MPPs in legislature. Newspaper articles surface once in a while attaching him to a seedy house in Cuba where men and young boys come and go. He claims to have been in Cuba to learn Portuguese, one of the primary languages in our ward. Portuguese in Cuba? Apparently, that's where his teachers lives. I want him replaced.
I canvassed with the NDP candidate and attended his campaign launch party. He seems an affable and articulate man. I came home to do a bit more research on him. It was then that I discovered information on the other candidates in our ward for this election. One of them is the leader of the Green Party.
I vote Green often. The Man was director of communication for them a few years ago. I want to see the Green Party be a viable alternative in Canada because I believe a green, sustainable economy is better for our mental and physical health. So now I have given time to a party that I may not be voting for.
Or should I vote NDP because I have given them time and I like the candidate?
Come to think of it, does it not always come down to Green or NDP for me? Except that time I voted Liberal because I didn't want Harper in, and that other time I voted Liberal because I admired the woman candidate.
I am a political slut.
In municipal elections, the candidate's party does not formally enter the race so it matters more how I feel about the candidate. In provincial and federal elections however, I do try to weigh the candidate and party politics.
When called to help out in this provincial election, I said yes even though I don't know the candidate and have never heard of him. I was a lazy ass that day. And I don't care for the incumbent, whose only "work" I have seen are chocolate bars slipped into the mail slot of households that put up Christmas lights. He has the poorest attendance record of all MPPs in legislature. Newspaper articles surface once in a while attaching him to a seedy house in Cuba where men and young boys come and go. He claims to have been in Cuba to learn Portuguese, one of the primary languages in our ward. Portuguese in Cuba? Apparently, that's where his teachers lives. I want him replaced.
I canvassed with the NDP candidate and attended his campaign launch party. He seems an affable and articulate man. I came home to do a bit more research on him. It was then that I discovered information on the other candidates in our ward for this election. One of them is the leader of the Green Party.
I vote Green often. The Man was director of communication for them a few years ago. I want to see the Green Party be a viable alternative in Canada because I believe a green, sustainable economy is better for our mental and physical health. So now I have given time to a party that I may not be voting for.
Or should I vote NDP because I have given them time and I like the candidate?
Come to think of it, does it not always come down to Green or NDP for me? Except that time I voted Liberal because I didn't want Harper in, and that other time I voted Liberal because I admired the woman candidate.
I am a political slut.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Sod Off, Boy
The Boy is going through a very unlikeable phase of teenhood. It's the taking for granted so much and showing appreciation for so little. He's rude and belligerent to me, negative in outlook, and contrary in nature. This is on top of all the whining and complaining he already does. He is no pleasure to be around.
I've stopped talking to him. No more bantering, joking around, inquiring about his day, anticipating his needs. When I want to tell him something, I take a deep breath and talk in a slow, controlled voice. I ignore his protests, snide comments and attempts to provoke me into a fit. I call him on his disrespectful behaviour then walk away. Don't engage, I remind myself. I don't care that I am being a mean mom.
A friend once told me that she went through a period of about three years where she didn't like her son at all. She started liking him again as he entered second year university, when he matured into a thoughtful, considerate young man.
I don't see evidence of that kind of man emerging in The Boy yet. He's just an irritating, selfish, narrow-minded whinger. Three years, eh?
I've stopped talking to him. No more bantering, joking around, inquiring about his day, anticipating his needs. When I want to tell him something, I take a deep breath and talk in a slow, controlled voice. I ignore his protests, snide comments and attempts to provoke me into a fit. I call him on his disrespectful behaviour then walk away. Don't engage, I remind myself. I don't care that I am being a mean mom.
A friend once told me that she went through a period of about three years where she didn't like her son at all. She started liking him again as he entered second year university, when he matured into a thoughtful, considerate young man.
I don't see evidence of that kind of man emerging in The Boy yet. He's just an irritating, selfish, narrow-minded whinger. Three years, eh?
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Shelter From The Storm
Summer touched down and took off so quickly. I sit here looking out my back window and it's 12C out. Which made me think of the amazing weekend I had at a cottage recently with my friends. As timing would have it, that was the weekend The Man attended a Zen-Buddhist retreat, and The Boy attended the Virgin music festival on the island. See what independent lives we lead?
One of the finest moments of this weekend with friends was the four us sitting on the deck smoking and drinking. A fifth friend was inside the cottage reading. It started to rain. But that did not deter us from doing the smoking and drinking that needed to be done. We simply pushed our chairs against the wall of the cottage where the roof jutted out by about two feet.
Under this shallow shelter, we continued to smoke, drink and talk. It was a wonderful feeling of being protected even as we were exposed; the feeling of protection was strong because we were together.
We stuck it out this way for a while before retreating back into the cottage either out of hunger, or we finally succumbed to the gathering storm, or both. There is nothing like watching a storm with friends from the safety of a dry cottage, where plenty of good food await.
One of the finest moments of this weekend with friends was the four us sitting on the deck smoking and drinking. A fifth friend was inside the cottage reading. It started to rain. But that did not deter us from doing the smoking and drinking that needed to be done. We simply pushed our chairs against the wall of the cottage where the roof jutted out by about two feet.
Under this shallow shelter, we continued to smoke, drink and talk. It was a wonderful feeling of being protected even as we were exposed; the feeling of protection was strong because we were together.
We stuck it out this way for a while before retreating back into the cottage either out of hunger, or we finally succumbed to the gathering storm, or both. There is nothing like watching a storm with friends from the safety of a dry cottage, where plenty of good food await.
Friday, September 14, 2007
One Step From The March
It's not that I have nothing to write about. It's more that I am cocooning, trying to get myself together. I also have India on my mind.
It happened like this. A new friend and her husband have for years worked on land reform in India. They've been organizing a march of the landless that will take place this October. As founders and key organizers of this march, they've mobilized between 25,000 and 100,000 of India's poorest. The march takes place over 30 days, walking about 16 km a day. She returned to India this week for the pre-march set up.
But before she left, she asked me to join her, for either the whole or part of the march. Chief Phil Fontaine is going. Because they are so well organized, my food and shelter will be taken care of, as I will be a foreign guest. I just need to take care of my flight.
The Man tells me to go. He calls this low-picking fruit. That is, the fruit is easy to get, everything is set up for me. The experience can be tremendous and maybe life altering. I am tired of thinking about doing something but never doing it because of cost, mothering, and wifely concerns.
Already, I am calling on videography resources to advise me on how make a documentary of the march. Maybe sell the film to Vision TV or W after the march to recover the cost of the trip. Even if the film doesn't get produced, I still want to take part in the march. Think of all the weight I will lose.
I have applied for my passport and had photos taken for a visa. I can recruit help to take care of my home responsibilities. It's only for one month at most.
So I fumble with raising the funds for the trip. I am one phone call away from booking the flight.
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