sit still

We are all together

2011-03-08T09:55:00.000-05:00

It would seem that for many people it is really easy to feel turned off by the eco-movement. Or worse, to kind of ignore it hoping it will just go away and let us live our lives in blissful overconsumption. It all started at last Saturday's swimming class with E (classe: Canard). In the changing room, she was the only baby with cloth diapers on. The only one. Nevermind that the pool is in the Pointe and cloth diapers are cheaper than disposables (I know, I know, I shouldn't make class-based sweeping generalizations). I kept rubbernecking to check out all the babies to make sure I wasn't just imagining it, and sure enough, there wasn't an AppleCheeks or a Bummis cover in sight. I guess because I myself thought so much about this part of having a baby, it was just normal to me to have cloth diapers and I thought that it was something that most people did these days. In fact, when we first started using them, I felt, and continue to feel, really good, like I was doing something significant, making a difference, you know? Not to mention that they are as cute as heck. When I had to use disposables (travelling, mainly), it felt like throwing garbage on the street. In public. And then hawking a loogie on it and blowing smoke in a pregnant lady's face for good measure. Still, most people, it would seem, are not moved.

So this got me thinking about the other major thing in a baby's life: food. We try as much as possible to buy organic food and feed organic food to E. The comment I hear most often is "Yeah, I wish I could do that but it is so expensive!"or "Really, you buy everything organic, even pasta and cereal?", as if grains are somehow exempt from the chemical soup that is conventional farming. I think that Food Inc. did a really good job of spelling out the problem: most people have a fantasy vision of where their food comes from. See the farmer wake up early to light the gas lamp in the barn and milk the cows, gently mooing. See his sweet-cheeked wife gather eggs into her checkered apron, throwing her head back to laugh at the chicks pecking at her toes. See the farmer boy forking steaming manure onto the vegetable garden and picking fresh tomatoes for an impromptu snack. They shade their eyes, and look to the city, where soon, they will take their milk and eggs and vegetables to sell in the market. Now, 'fess up, how many of you have this little fantasy? The truth of the matter is that here in Canada, small family farms are virtually extinct. The large farms rely on chemical fertilizers (no, no, they are super safe, really!), Monsanto seeds, heavy machinery, antibiotics and minimum area for livestock. I don't really want to go into what is done to animals on a conventional farm because it makes me so angry and depressed.

People know this. Of course they know this. The thing is, being eco-anything isn't sexy. It's wearing shapeless garments fashioned of hemp and scraping toddler snot off used toys. It's having no room for the 2000$ deck chair because your patio is covered with tomato plants drooping about. It's spending money on food, of all things, and then having less. And people, well, people want MORE.

http://www.treehouseclapham.org.uk/

I've been reading a book called Diary of an Eco-Builder by Will Anderson (those avant-garde Brits!). He built an eco-house in central London and blogged about it for the Independent. His columns are now in book form and it is brilliant. One thing he wrote really jumped off the page at me:

"If green living is all about sacrifice, forget it. We want more: more light, more comfort, more beauty, more health and more style. I am confident that a holistic approach to environmental specification will deliver a quality of life that is far superior to that offerred by a gas guzzling design."

Will Anderson, of the sexy stylish eco-house, I sing this for you. I, too, want MORE, not less. I want more clean water and more clean air. I want more untainted fish and more animals free to roam. I want more Alberta landscape to remain free from environmental holocaust. I want more ozone layer, not less. I want more vegetables crammed with wholesome flavour free from chemicals. I want more grains to produce seed for the next crop. I want more peace of mind. I want more health. For myself and for my family and, yes, for you reading this, I want more.

Money & Americana

2011-03-03T10:16:00.001-05:00

I've been reading this book called Your Money or Your Life by Vicki Robinson and Joe Dominguez. Far from a get-rich-quick kind of book that you see everywhere (or seem to hear about, anyway), its kind of a get-rich-slow-and-steady thing.
I have not yet gone through all the steps that are suggested, but I have read it cover to cover first, as recommended. In a nutshell, the book is a programme designed to make you more aware and conscious of how much money you have earned in your life and where your money has gone and continues to go. Spreadsheets are involved. Keeping tabs on your spending is involved. Accounting for every penny that goes out and realizing exactly without a doubt where your money goes. The end goal is to decide on a sum that you need for living, and working towards becoming financially independent so that you no longer have to do anything you don't love doing for money, and money comes in. Not loads of it, but enough for you. On a smaller scale, the action of keeping strict accounts for a while of where your money goes sparks a creative and frugal instinct. Basically, although some things are inevitable expenditures, we can be quite creative in getting our needs met when we are very clear as to what they are. Well, friends, let me tell you that I have been extremely inspired and excited by all this frugality! I love it! It has given me a sense of clarity the likes of which I have not seen in a few years for sure! And so when my good friends J and A lent me their yard sale copies of the entire series of Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books (which I have of course read in the past many times), I've been devouring them with the idea of frugality front and center. In my opinion, if you ever get tired of listening to Tea Party this and GOP that and even the liberals talking smack about Obama (fools), pick up Little House on the Praire or On the Banks of Plum Creek or any of the books really. They will restore your faith in Americans as being adventurous, self-sufficient, hard-working and creative - and frugal! So frugal! Truly understanding the relationship between work and money in a way that we in this post-industrial era don't really. We think we do, but we don't. Here's an excerpt from Farmer Boy, where Almanzo, who is nine, wants a nickel for some lemonade at the county fair. Almanzo's father uses this as a teachable moment to teach Almanzo about the value of money:

"You know how to raise potatoes, Almanzo?"
"Yes" Almanzo said.
"Say you have a seed potato in the spring, what do you do with it?"
"You cut it up," Almanzo said.
"Go on, son."
"Then you harrow - first you manure the field, and plow it. Then you harrow, and mark the ground. And plant the potatoes, and plow them, and hoe them. You plow and hoe them twice."
"That's right, son. And then?"
"Then you dig them and put them all down cellar."
"Yes. Then you pick them over all winter; you throw out all the little ones and the rotten ones. Come spring, you load them up and haul them here to Malone, and you sell them. And if you get a good price, son, how much do you get to show for all that work? How much do you get for half a bushel of potatoes?"
"Half a dollar," Almanzo said.
"Yes," said Father. "That's what's in this half dollar, Almanzo. The work that raised half a bushel of potatoes is in it."

Almanzo's dad (how come more people aren't named Almanzo these days? Watch it become the It name soon) goes on to give his son a half-dollar and tells him that he can spend it on whatever he wants - lemonade bla bla bla OR he can buy a suckling pig and raise it and sell the piglets next year etc. I'll keep you in suspense as to what nine-year-old Almanzo decides to do ;-) - but I will give you a clue: the book is called Farmer Boy and not Spendthrift Boy. (The book also inspired me to make a huge spelt pancake fur lunch yesterday - yum)

Now, you are asking yourselves, what does this have to do with anything today? We do not sow, neither do we harrow. But many of us do wake up daily and put gas in our cars and wear expensive clothing and carry expensive bags with expensive computers (ahem) and go on vacations to 'get away', and this is in essence the same thing. So if we are trading our lives for money, we'd better know where that money is going and we'd better spend some time thinking about some better ways to spend it or make it. The Little House Books have the potential to bring us back to a simpler time when men built their homes and women sewed the family's clothes. There's a huge crafting resurgence going on these days, with knitting circles and weaving cloth. People are growing their own herbs and some vegetables and bread baking is big too. Barter is back as well. I'm sure people are writing about this new time and what it means. I'm hoping it means that there is a rethinking about what is important in life and to what we assign value.

What are some frugal things that you do? I'm looking for all ideas.

Reflective Researcher

2011-03-02T09:29:00.000-05:00

The story of this blog (and of my life) is that I start things and lay them aside with alarming regularity. One of these is this blog that I have kept on and mainly off since 2005. Many things happened to derail me: My dad died in 2006 and the last post before he died was about him being sick and me being scared. I couldn't write anything anymore after that... The blog morphed into a no-fuss travelogue for our trip to India in 2008. That was good and removed from real life and therefore untainted.
I picked up the blog again after I gave birth to share what I learned with a pregnant friend of mine... who subsequently lost her baby very near to full term... I couldn't write anything after that, either, nothing that mattered, anyway.
But now that time has worn the jagged, splinty corners off the grief somewhat (somewhat), maybe it's time to write again. My friends have scattered all over the world, or are not so far, but might as well be a world away. I read their blogs or Facebook posts avidly. And I'd like to contribute a way for them of keeping in touch with me and for me to keep learning from my experiences (good or bad). Donald Schön wrote that reflecting is the way to learn from experience, that we reflect on our actions and by becoming good at this, end up reflecting IN action. "We become reflective researchers in situations of uncertainly, instability, uniqueness and conflict" (Schön, 1983) - and what is life if not uncertainty, instability, uniqueness and conflict?

Plan for 6 weeks

2009-09-17T19:31:00.000-05:00

The midwives all said to plan for 6 weeks, so I did. My sister-in-law told me that she had been taken unawares by how long it took her to recover from her c-section and to find a rhythm with her newborn. I was mentally prepared for the worst, and so when I felt pretty good after 4 weeks, it was a nice surprise. That being said, even though physically I was feeling ok, the breastfeeding didn't hit its stride for me until about week 8. Basically, if it isn't one thing, its another. Some babies sleep poorly, or get thrush. Some women get infections in their stitches, or mastitis from engorgement. I'm thinking that the best thing to do is to plan for the maximum recovery time and take it easy until then. And even if I was prepared, I was my own worst enemy, constantly thinking that I 'should' be more active or 'should' be feeling better, or I 'should' do more. In many cultures, women are expected to do NOTHING for 6 weeks except take care of their baby and themselves. It isn't easy to lâcher prise of the Western ideal of always being on the run or accomplishing a million things. In those early weeks, you are in fact accomplishing the most important thing - welcoming a new person and introducing them gently to the world.

The first few months: lessons learned

2009-09-13T19:57:00.000-05:00

Adrian and I had a baby this past June. She is delightful and a daily joy in our lives. In the large scheme of things, having her has been completely rewarding and fulfilling bla bla bla, but, let's not kid ourselves, the first weeks were hard. Frustrating. Exhausting. Emotionally draining. I thought that my life would never be the same, and not in a good way. But, every day, Adrian and I discovered ways to make our lives a bit easier or learned the hard way what not to do. I also remember some minor epiphanies. I thought that I would share some of what I learned for my friends who are pregnant or have children. Hopefully, you'll pass on what you've learned as well.

Here is a starter list, and I'll elaborate on each point in separate posts.

Plan for 6 weeks
Eat breakfast
Get help with breastfeeding quickly
Request food
Watch and listen to your baby
Dads are great!
Schedules, no. Routines, yes!
Beware the orthodoxy of others
No fear

Clean, clean, clean?

2008-04-16T07:54:00.002-05:00

In a Facebook note, Adrian wrote about the 'ethnic' Westerners we keep sighting - the ones with matted, dirty uncombed hair, a highly random hodge-podge assortment of clothing that they might refer to as a 'cultural pastiche' (gag) and an overall coating of grime layered over their skin and possessions. We didn't see so many down south, but here in Delhi and in Dharamsala, they were out in packs, with their batik tank tops and dreadlocks. Perhaps they feel a sense of solidarity with the less fortunate Indians who live without proper sanitation facilities and want to show that they can fit in here. Dunno.

We were in Old Delhi a few days ago and arrived very early in the morning as many of the city's inhabitants where just stirring from their sidewalk beds. Our train arrived at 5:30 am and by 7 am we were on a cycle rickshaw going through some parts of the area we had missed last time. We stopped for some chai at a chai stall and as Adrian and our driver had some, I surreptitiously watched as a young man bathed nearby at a pump? A hose and bucket? I don't remember. But I do recall the morning sunshine and his zealous application of shampoo to his hair, a tiny packet sold for 1 rupee at various stalls in many neighborhoods where small packets are most accessible. He squeezed some out to use as soap and scrubbed his body and arms well, rinsing with a cup (like most Indians, washing is done with bucket and cup to conserve the water). Around him, people were stoking small coal fires for breakfast, but he was busy scrubbing his face, his ears, serious about his morning ablutions. It gave me pause as I considered this phenomenon that I knew about, having read so much about India - people here are very clean and take pride in being clean no matter what their circumstances. Soap and shampoo is available everywhere in one rupee packets. Water comes out of pumps and public taps. Everybody washes and everybody is clean, ready to face another dusty day in Delhi.

In fact, everyone in India is very clean, washing many times a day (as it is very dirty on the streets). People wear clean pressed clothing and are extremely conscious of their appearance, wanting to appear tidy and neat at all times. It is such chaos here on the streets, such dirt and noise and pollution, it is no wonder that people hold on to the only kind of cleanliness they can control, that of their own person. Except the hippie Westerners. Apparently, they weren't told.

Old Delhi

2008-04-09T08:32:00.001-05:00

After spending two weeks in Kerala, a province that shares the southern tip of India with its neighbour Tamil Nadu, we returned to Delhi for the last leg of our trip which has taken us to Dharamsala in Himachal Pradesh, home to the Tibetan government in exile and residence of the Dalai Lama. We figured that our day in Delhi would just be about organizing our journey, picking up our tickets and killing some time. Our train departed from the Old Delhi railway station and our travel agent arranged to get us driven there. On parting, he advised us to spend some time going through Old Delhi on a cycle rickshaw, since our train was a night one at 10pm.

Oh boy. Little did we know that the few hours we spent in Old Delhi with a Nepalese rickshaw driver guide would be one of the highlights of our journey, on par with our houseboat experience in Kerala (I think Adrian wrote something about that). Adrian and I gravitate to urban environments. We like people watching and the hustle and bustle of daily mundane life - you know, stuff like winding our way through narrow lanes filled to bursting with wedding saris and fabrics, dripping with jewelry and heady with incense fumes. Normal everyday stuff like breathing in the scent of a hundred spices in the wholesale spice lane that was so choked with airborne spices that even the merchants were coughing and sneezing right along with us. I cannot even describe how tight these Old Delhi lanes are and how much human and motorized traffic winds its way through them - in both directions! And how many shops, wide open to the lanes with merchants often sitting on floor mattresses. Tiny woodworking shops with old-skool tools and men wearing dhotis to cope with the heat. And amidst it all a tiny girl lovingly polishing a motorbike (we almost got her on camera... almost).

Sometimes when we couldn't proceed on the rickshaw, we had to disembark and follow our guide on foot. Our first such foray (mind the um... shit) led us to a lovely old lane with a hidden Jain temple at its end, where we had to be careful to remove all leather items and wash our hands AFTER removing our leather shoes (I learned this the hard way as I touched my shoe as I took it off and was asked to wash my hands again). Our second venture on foot was through the spice wholesalers stalls and up the stairs to a rooftop where a group of boys were on a break from working as fry cooks for candy factory workers. We looked over the choked chaotic streets of Old Delhi and took pictures with our new friends who wanted us to send them a copy of the photos ... but how?

We return to Delhi in 4 days and will explore more of Old Delhi hopefully getting the same guide, if we can find him. Words fail me and I am still trying to process all that I have seen in the space of a few hours. All India is teeming with life and Old Delhi epitomizes both the worst and best of this incredible country. I have read many accounts of Old Delhi and India in general invoking the misery and the squalor, but all I see is Life in all its facets, all its moods, a cacophony of sights, sounds and smells that reminds us of that which is most basic - the sharing of space with others who have equal claim on it. It is the full symphony of life, with its major and minor chords where sorrow breaks daily bread with joy.

Going native

2008-04-03T04:40:00.002-05:00

Even before coming to India, I knew that I would want to wear Indian dress while travelling. I thought that it would be a mark of respect for the Indian culture and its people, that it would be good for the heat and because several travel sources recommended this for women travelling as it discourages excessive staring and potential "Eve teasing" (basically, harrassment) by locals. In addition to this, the women's clothing is beautiful, with goregeous fabrics and patterns.

Because wearing a sari is just too complicated for a novice and especially a travelling novice, I settled on a Salwaar Kameez, also called a Punjabi suit, which involves a 3/4 length tunic, loose pants and a shawl very useful for covering ones nose from diesel fumes and wiping hands dry after meals (we eat with our hands! Well, hand, right one). I have pictures on the camera but I mostly look a bit ass, as Indian women usuallly get SKs made to measure and off the rack ones tailored. My tailoring experiences have been ... less than stellar, and I have decided to cut my losses and just wear what I have so far, even if it is too loose. Clearly, unless I work with an English-speaking tailor, I will never get anywhere. Adrian is getting some suits made to measure, and the men's tailors here are awesome, with a long tradition of tailoring Western style clothing, so at least one of us is making out ok on that front.

In spite of this, I have really enjoyed wearing SKs. When I first arrived, they were my security blanket, I felt that I did not stand out as much, and that the gerenal message that I was presenting to India was "I come in peace". In Delhi there were plenty of tourists and Indian national in Western clothing, but as we moved away from cities and tourists, traditional garb dominated. Even in Delhi, I would say that only 5% of the women were wearing Western clothing in the areas that we visited (probably in wealthier areas this might be higher).

I don't have one quite so nice, but this is a Salwar Kameez as worn by many women in India.
As well as making me feel less conspicuous (nice try) the SKs also opened up avenues for interacting with other women, who were more likely to smile and waggle their heads at me when they saw what I was wearing. It seems to bridge the gap.

And speakin of the gap, my favourite store is definitely Fab India which is like an Indian Gap (no offense to Fab India). You can check it out at http://www.fabindia.com/ . There are of course plenty of other places to shop, but the self-serve mix and match ethos of this chain is a more familiar fashion experience for me. I also bought a kurti (kameez, the top part) at an emporium, which is basically a shop designed to rip off tourists, but I just walked out when I was told the price and the shop owner ran after me shouting "what do you want to pay?" and we finally settled on a fair price. This part of shopping in India is exhausting, always having to haggle and I won't miss it. It is as though every single thing is a small battle and it leaves you weary after a while, even though initially it might give you a charge. Adrian is surprisingly good at haggling, so I let him do most of it. We do a lot of walking away, at least he does.

Five things I find annoying about India

2008-03-29T04:49:00.002-05:00

Don't get me wrong, I love India and am not regretting coming here one bit. It is an Experience that I hope to repeat in the future and see more parts of this topsy-turvy jibber-jabber place. However.

Five things I find annoying about India

1. Everyone assumes that you are dripping with dollars and tries to scam you. All the time. Every single shop, museum, temple will try to get more out of you than is necessary. And I'm talking like 100-200% more.

2. You are constantly being offerred auto-rickshaw and taxi rides. It is assumed that you cannot walk more than 10 meters without needing to sit down and be chaufferred.

3. People watch you all the damn time. They watch you walk down the street. They watch you get on the train. They watch you eat and I am pretty sure that they would ike to watch you go to the bathroom if they could. And not only do they stare, they laugh. Ha ha ha, see whitey walk down the street. Har dee har see whitey eat food. Giggle chuckle guffaw see whitey take in the museum.

4. People refuse to point you in the direction of authentic spicy food. It's as though they are thinking "Oh, I am sure she doesn't REALLY want Keralan food, she must want Pizza hut and got confused due to the heat".

5. Fumes. Not only is everyone driving driving driving or riding riding riding stinky diesel and other buses and cars, but they are also IDLING them for hours. As in, "the tourists have gone into the museum for 45 minutes, so I'll go have a tea at the chai stall and leave the engine on. Why the hell not???"

Aaaah. Feels better already. Next post about the good stuff.

And some things are awesome

2008-03-29T04:46:00.000-05:00

Ok, so there are things that happen no matter where we go and are so heartwarming that they make you forget about the stuff that is muck.
Five Favourite things about India
1. People spontaneously call out hello or smile and waggle their heads (especially if you do it first!) or bring their children over to shake hands. In a museum in Delhi a group of school children wanted to shake hands with me, every single child (like 50 or so), until I started doing Namaste instead and then they Namaste'd back with vigour and energy!
2. When you find good food it is VERY GOOD. Plus they keep giving you seconds and thirds until you can't handle it anymore (so much for losing weight in India!)
3. Every day is an adventure with a constantly changing human landscape. We fall asleep exhausted and sleep for 9 hours because our brains need to process it all.
4. The train! It is awesome! And don't let the dreadlocked backpacker crowd fool you, there is no shame riding in second class Air Con (fancier than regular class) when it is 36 degrees outside and humid! You still experience the "real India", whatever that means.
5. The enterprising nature of everyone. If there is opportunity, there is someone taking advantnge of it. My father would have loved this very American trait (American in the best sense of the word!)

Holi at home and on the street

2008-03-27T04:34:00.002-05:00

March 21st and 22nd marked the yearly festival of Holi, celebrated with much gusto in the North of India where we happened to be at that time. The Holi eve is marked by bonfires everywhere and Holi morning is when the colours come out. People smear each other with dyes for a happy and prosperous Spring. And when I say smear, I mean smear. Faces, clothing, hair, nothing escapes if you are playing Holi for keeps. Adrian and I were caught in a little bit of street-style Holi when some girls called to us from a balcony and asked "Please, put your camera away. Let us throw water balloons at you!". I immediately scampered merrily (ok, ran in terror) to the other side of the road screaming "but it's my only nice kurti!" while Adrian played nice and let himself be a traget for their water balloons (they missed...). We were walking along the street and I was mentally congratulating myself from emerging unscathed when out of nowhere comes a water ballon! And then another! They do not hit me directly but splash my pants with yucky yucky Delhi dirt. I admit that I cried in the rickshaw at the thought of my nice clean Indian pants all mucky. I was worried that the colour might not come off since not everyone uses safe vegetable dyes.

The next morning at home in the guesthouse our hosts Ushi and Avni came up to the dining room and sang a Holi song and gave us sweets and painted our foreheads with colour. We also got to pick a Ganesh mini-statue for luck (Ganesh is the elephant head god who is said to be the remover of obstacles). It was really interesting and my favourite part of Holi.

Adrian pointed out to me that there were some advertising poster featuring Westerners in the Holi spirit, so perhaps it was a great prize to stain a Westerner, or as Adrian puts it "get Whitey". Who knows. My pants are fine.

The image is from the BBC website.

Tourism and food

2008-03-27T04:15:00.001-05:00

So Agra, like any tourist beat, is really designed to strip people of all their available cash. In fact, most places to which we have been that cater specifically to tourists, both Indian and Western, are quite expensive by Indian standards. This means that one can expect to pay up to 4 times as much for a meal in a restaurant of dubious quality and certainly zero authenticity as one would pay in a local dhaba or 'meals place'. The problem is that the places that are touristy are touristy for a reason, like for instance, the Taj Mahal. So you want to go there, it isn't Disneyland in spite of the commercialisation that springs up around it - India is a very enterprising nation.

So Adrian and I have made it our mission to see interesting touristy places AND eat yummy delicious food at the same time. Much more difficult than it sounds, actually, but we think we have found the winning formula. See, where there are tourists, there are buses and taxis and rickshaws (auto ones mostly) and where there are buses and taxis and rickshaws, there are drivers. And drivers must eat. Here in Kovallam, Kerala (western tip of India) we located the meals place just next to the bus 'stop' - and it was not easy to find. These places look like holes in the wall - basically an open doorway leading to a couple of narrow tables, a sink in one corner and some much needed and largely ineffective ceiling fans. Plus, to confuse one further, they are often called 'hotels', which in India actually means restaurant. In fact, a good rule of thumb would be to avoid any establishment that calls itself a restaurant since it is BOUND to be aimed at a tourist crowd.

So this meals place that we found today works like this: you come in and get ushered to a seat. As soon as you sit down, a banana leaf is plunked in front of you and immediately someone comes by and plops a large quantity of white rice on it. This is followed by a generous ladle of sambar, a thick curry vegetable broth, and at least three other dishes in small amounts. Cutlery is nowhere to be seen (although quite honestly this varies and in many places you will be offered a spoon). We were also offered some fried fish (a small kind of fish). When it looks like you have finished some of your meal, someone comes around with second helpings of everything, each generously deposited on the banana leaf. When you are through, you take the banana leaf to the sink and put it in a pan with others, and then you wash your hands and if you are not used to eating with your fingers, you'll also need to wash your face, neck, arms, etc. Before you leave, you pay. 25 rps per person. WHAT???? Yes. 50 rps for a meal for two where we were so full we practically rolled out. 40rps = 1 dollar. It was a very memorable meal and one we hope to repeat now that we are more savvy.

In addition to bad tourist food, a major annoyance is the touts trying to sell you stuff you really don't want like shawls, drums, expensive fruit, wall hangings, jewelry. I have never said 'no, thank you' so often in all my life.

Delhi: Second Impressions

2008-03-23T06:22:00.003-05:00

I love Delhi. Adrian loves Delhi. We love Delhi. It is buslting, it is dirty, you can't lose focus for even one second because you will be run over, but it beats with a pulse that is organic and palpable. A living breathing organism (that possibly needs some serious ayurvedic treatments and a petrol-fume patch to wean itself off the hard stuff).
One of our delights has been to discover that our guesthouse is nowhere near any tourist part of town. This means that when we went to the nearby busy Karol Bagh area for some shopping (hello custom made pinstripe suit) we were by far the only white people there, which isn't so true of the tourist beats of Connaught Place and Paharganj. The first day we found food in a restaurant whose sister establishment had only wall menus in Hindi. People watched us eat and a young girl laughed at us (for reasons that remain a mystery as we were really doing our best to copy what everyone else was doing, which to be frank was quite random. Well, truth be told, she laughed at Adrian, and it may have been his visor that set her off. Haven't seen many visors in India. So far, anyway.)The food in Karol Bagh is awesome. All locals, all the time, eating, eating, eating out, embracing their middle-classness. The food has to be good because it is competing with very accessible home-cooking. So far we have been most often enjoying thalis, which are a way of serving small portions of many different meny items and usually include rice and chappatti or roti and sometimes even tasy fried puri (all breads).
This has been easiest for us as we get to sample many things, usually vegetarian, and not have to worry about 'choosing right'. Plus we are usually so overstimulated when we sit down to eat that choosing just two dishes from a huge list seems to overwhelming.
Our Delhi guesthouse also had yummy food, although not such great prices, so we usually only breakfasted there every other day.

I found the thali image at www.messandnoise.com

Taj Mahal

2008-03-23T04:19:00.000-05:00

After much itinerary planning, Adrian and I set off for the Taj on our third day in India. We hired a private car to take us as it was quite short notice and not on our way to anywhere else. In retrospect, this was a good idea as we were still jet-lagged and unable to sleep and so we got to watch India go by as we sat lulled by the car and its constantly blaring horn. The road trip was quite an education, lemme tell you what. India is the third world. I know that is not politically correct, but there is no other way to describe what we saw on the way to Agra from Delhi.

The Taj is beautiful and lives up to all expectations. Our favourite part was that as it is not prime tourist season, we got to enjoy the Taj with Indian tourists. The women were all dressed in their finery and floated towards the large white mausoleum like butterflies to their palatial home.

Wildlife

2008-03-21T10:35:00.002-05:00

So far, we have seen many cows and many dogs (cute, sad ones), a few camels, a donkey, some yaks on the road to Agra as well as some wild boars (Mama Boar and Baby Boar), a kitten on our terrace, some parrakeets, gazelles, chipmunks, two gheckos, horses and a single mosquito. And this is after three days in Delhi with one of them spent on the road to Agra (Taj Mahal). Notoriously absent in this list you might notice are rats and cockroaches. It is like a damn safari.
Everybody told me about the beggars but nobody warned me of the dogs. I am not a dog-lover, but my heart absolutely breaks at the sight of these dogs that are everywhere and much more omnipresent than the beggars. I wonder if the city has a neutering programme and whether it is effective at all. I cannot even imagine what it must be like for dog lovers... Under a truck we saw a mother and her cute fuzzy puppies nursing. Adorable and sad.

Delhi: First Impressions

2008-03-21T10:13:00.004-05:00

We had read so much about the Delhi Arrival (scary, moist, dirty, smelling of humans and all their smells, full of touts and people ready to drive you anywhere but where you actually want to go) that we were naturally somewhat apprehensive. We arrived in at Indira Gandhi Airport at 1:15am tired but alert. We were ready. We had only carry-on luggage. We changed money. We went to the bathroom so as not to have to face the Delhi Arrival with potentially soiled trousers. We gave each other a final look, nodded tersely, and ventured through the gates to the waiting area. True, there were many many people for 2am. They were somewhat benignly holding signs with people's names on and smiling or looking profoundly bored. Ours was literaly the 3rd sign in, right at the entrance. Nobody was yelling. Nobody was particularly smelly. It wasn't even that hot. Our driver took us to our guesthouse where our cockroach-less room was waiting and we slept like babies.
However. Delhi is dirty. Not just dirty, but Dirty. Think of the different types of dirty and they are all there, all the pollutants in one miasmic soup of yuck. The air is thick with smog. I mean hard-to-breathe thick. The car headlights beam through a permanent smokey fog and the night sky is yellowish and hazy. During the day, horns honk non-stop. Plastic bags and other debris litter everything (no food, though, too much stray wildlife). Dust rises from broken roads. Water is unfit to drink. It saddens me and scares me. This land of a billion souls seems like an apocalyptic voice from the future. We are too safe in our homes in North America. Too safe and too complacent.

Sitting still...barely

2008-03-14T13:30:00.002-05:00

Adrian and I are going to India in a few days. We are manic and deceptively calm, sipping our tea like its nothing, like we jump multiple time-zones regularly and just as regularly drop over a month's salary on a vacation. We'll be posting our thoughts, well, possibly my thoughts, here, so buckle your seatbelts, people.

Till it hurts

2006-04-10T09:21:00.000-05:00

I found out this past weekend that I will be competing with the dance team I am on at the upcoming Canadian Swing Championships (I am sure someone will post the link). Oh boy. I am actually of two minds about this. On the one hand, competing with the team is an honour in itself. We were for the most part handpicked with no auditions and most people on the team are champions. It is an all-star team, or nearly. Well, except for me and one or two others. To my credit, the dancing part is great. I zip around and make it look easy. Zip zip zip. But! But then we have the aerials. Five of them! All new to me! Not to mention two lifts. Before, these lifts would be plenty for me to chew on and now they are barely worth a mention. I am spun around, flipped upside down, thrown over, grabbed unceremoniously by the thighs and flipped again. And I have to jump. Jump. Over and over and over I have to jump. I am not much of a jumper, you see. My legs feel like they are cemented firmly to the ground with my brain helping out by making little shrieking 'no, no, no!' sounds. Stay down! it shouts. Plus, there is The Speed. We are talking speeeeeed. Bal team fast with lindy hop material. So I am in pain. All the time. I practice a few times a week and hurt every day.

Health

2005-12-21T14:24:00.000-05:00

My Daddy is in the hospital with a very high fever. Virus. Origin unkown. Localization unknown. Treatment unknown. Tests. Scans. Biopsies. People asking the same questions endlessly as though trying to catch my dad in a lie. Does it hurt when I press here? How about here? Its scary and exhausting, probably more for him than for me.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

2005-12-16T08:12:00.000-05:00

Its a snow day! A real honest-to-goodness snow day made even more real by the fact that I had an 8:30 appoitment at an elementary school to work on rubrics with a group of teachers and it was cancelled due to snow! I heard it on the radio. Needless to say, I felt about 8 years-old (no big change there actually) and still do, although my adult self has taken over somewhat with guilt about possibly not hunkering down and working all day (icky!) but instead drinking white tea and trimming the tree (fun!). Outside, people are trying to make it up Victoria, some of them clearly with all-season tires. I feel like taking out my megaphone (don't have one) and shouting out my window: "You live in Canada! More specifically, in Montreal, the metropolis that gets the most snow in the Northeast! Get winter tires, you morons."

Even though every day is a gift, this one really feels like it. I need to harness that feeling.

Sleeping in here

2005-12-14T22:31:00.000-05:00

"You'll be sleeping in here" He gestured to a mattress neatly laid on the floor. "Yes, thank you" I replied, rather meekly. The sheets were dark and masculine, colours that I would never have picked myself. I'll be cold, I thought, how lucky to have brought my sleeping bag after all. I put down my stuff. "Thank you" I said again. The closet door was half open and I nudged it with my foot. A semi-awkward silence ensued. Along the far wall, an ironing board took up the space in front of the window and there were vertical blinds shut tight. I'd have to open them before I went to bed, since I hate waking up in the dark. "So I guess I'd better change now..." I trailed off. "Yes. Right. Ok." He left then and I sank to my knees on the carpet to open my suitcase. My pajamas were there and my toothbrush. I put them on and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I padded back and crawled into bed, pulling my sleeping bag up to my neck. "You ok in there?" He came in. "just let me know if you need anything. Are you cold? We can move you, you know. Just say the word." I said I was fine I guessed. I turned out the light and watched him walk away, taking one last look over his shoulder. I lay back in the dark, my sleeping bag rustling as I shifted.

I will follow ... where you lead

2005-12-12T13:27:00.000-05:00

I’m 30 years old (ummm…give or take and mainly give), I’ve lived in a multicultural Canadian urban metropolis for most of my life and more than anything I would like to live in a small town in New England. There. It would kill me, no doubt, and I am absolutely unprepared for it. The antiques, the baking. At least I’ve got the maple syrup part down. Its no use hiding it, I must confess that I am utterly addicted to the Gilmore Girls and from this addiction stems my newfound desire to live in a wood-frame house complete with wraparound porch and gabled windows. Although having abated somewhat in the topsy-turvy fall, my latent small-town-Americana (but not that kind of Americana, the other kind, the Martha kind, the TV kind) tendencies have reawakened with the ringing of sleigh bells poorly disguised as grocery store muzak. Are you listening? I want to walk in a winter wonderland in Stars Hollow! I want to spend some of my days in a fully-equipped-state-of-the-art-make-Williams-Sonoma-weep-with-envy kitchen and the other days walking around town in stilettos and tight sweaters, my lipstick crimson, my hair shiny, the snow falling yet melting miraculously in the path of my Manolos! Yes! Me, too much reading too much thinking yoga bending deep breathing hippie tea drinking me. The watcher in me chuckles. The reality would be different no doubt. I have bunions so the Manolos are out. I eat off any lipstick I put on within minutes. Tight sweaters … yeah, I could pull those off. Ditto the cooking. The cooking and endless tasting would, of course, make me fat. And even my fantasy comes full circle, with me monitoring what I put in my mouth as I fall on and off the wagon in a never-ending ballet of food management…

Simplicity and St-Nick

2005-12-11T21:50:00.000-05:00

As you may know, I decided this year to forego most of the traditional gift-giving and give money to charities. People getting gifts from me would receive a card that describes what the money I would have spent on their gift was used for instead. For instance, 35$ given to Word Vision Canada (I know, I know, all manner of religious overtones here, but bear with me) gets a family in Somalia 2 full grown hens and a rooster. Some gifts, such as school supplies for Nairobi, multiply tenfold since you basically pay for the shipping of something that companies have donated. So one day, full of these plans, I go downstairs to my Mum's to tell her the news. "Mum," I say "this year I have decided to share with those less fortunate and help people de-clutter their lives at the same time by giving the joy of giving! Isn't that great?" Well, apparently not so much. My mum gave me the sort of look that let me know that I was playing fast and loose with tradition and that she wasn't having any of it. "What, no presents?" she asked " none at all?" she turned suddenly into a five year old "But I sort of like jewelry..." she trailed off wistfully. My dad's reaction was better. "I love this out of the box thinking!" He wrote in an email, happily using his new jargon "The rooster for Namibia just bought me!" Admittedly, his mastery of the jargon was still in its initial stages, but he was sold on my idea. In the end, though, I am having to go half and half, giving away some of the money and buying people presents to mollify them somewhat. I don't know yet where I stand on all of this. My mum gets ridiculous about Christmas which invariably turns into an overconsumption orgy with all of us opening presents at once since there are so many of them that we cannot keep up. Our opened gifts drown in piles of wrapping paper, ribbons and shrink wrap as we struggle to come up with appropriate exclamations of gladness and surprise, differing from gift to gift. Last year, I was so disoriented that I honestly felt like giving myself a time-out from the madness. Basically, when it comes right down to it, I just like the food (yummy Polish yumness), the fact that we are together and going to bed with a box of chocolates and a book from my Chapters Indigo wish list). Oh, and new pajamas.

This year, I've gone with Alternative Gifts International as well as World Vision Canada (in spite of its Christian roots).

Gah. A whole year.

2005-12-01T14:26:00.000-05:00

I simply cannot fathom that it has been over a year since I have posted anything here. Well, that isn't entirely true. I CAN fathom it. The road to hell, after all, was paved with good intentions. This was supposed to be an outlet for latent scribal tendencies "oh, Syl, you have a gift, you should practice more" - but in the end I find it hard to write without an audience. And I know blogs are supposed to have an audience, but only if you tell people about it, ya. But I am finding of late that I would like to say some things and so I figured that I'll say them here and see how it goes. I'll get to play with things like uploading images and what not. That should be fun.

Rock chick

2004-09-24T14:39:00.000-05:00

Hair always looks best right before it is cut. The days before the appointment are pretty much guaranteed to be good hair days and the moment in front of the mirror when the stylist clicks open the scissors is without a doubt your defining moment in terms of hair. You are, at that precise moment, as hot as you are gonna get. The haircut is just a reset.
Last year, I got a haircut. My hair was dark blonde, streaked, and fairly long. I like it that way, and so do the boys I sleep with. But I felt that starting a new job, and in a university to boot, meant that the mane would have to be clipped so that a new professional me could emerge from her chrysalis. Plus, I was turning 30 and wanted something to mark the solemn occasion. Mistake. Mistake, mistake, mistake. Too much pressure. What stylist can handle that sort of pressure? I walked out of there looking pretty blonde and pretty good only to discover that what I was in fact sporting was a soccer-mom haircut, albeit adapted for the new milleniun (I hate people who use the term new millenium). I was professional. I was wholesome. I wore glasses that made me look smart. I looked like a fucking cunt.
Last night, I got a haircut. Marched into a trendy salon on St-Laurent (late for my appointment) and put my hair (which by now was looking fabulous, naturally) in the hands of who I hoped was a very talented colorist (he was) and a very experienced stylist (she was). Told them about the soccermom débâcle, told them about being 30. They got it. The colour choices freaked me out but I went with it (I was able to practice my lâcher prise) and the haircut method was rather unorthodox since the stylist had learned it that weekend from a hotshot star stylist giving a workshop in TO. « Vous faites très Aveda, ma chère » I was told. Whatever that means, I felt like a rock chick. I needed zippers. I needed a cigarette and a glass of scotch. I needed heavy eye makeup. I needed a tattoo. Best 200 bucks I ever spent. Motherfucker.

Tonic Salon Spa - (Damon and Karine did my hair)
www.tonicsalonspa.com

Montréal, ma ville

2004-08-30T09:24:00.000-05:00

Montreal. These streets. Sidewalk stepping, pothole dodging, stride stride strut and look at me. I breathe this city.

The city is full of my ghosts. Here comes one now, sliding down the escalators at McGill metro, dodging the pointy bits, a huge bruise down one leg from poorly timed metrobatics. She owns that metro, that escalator. There she goes, clutching her black box with capital letters F.A.C.E. stamped across the front - quick we're going to be late for choir, don't forget your clarinet, my mom would kill me. Pink shorts and a haircut off to the Imperial for Return of the Jedi (a date? is it a date?) and the happy innocence of ice cream on St-Laurent. Run run run and collapse in giggles in the Carré St-Louis, but be careful there, its dodgy. The city takes care of me. Knee deep in city water, pants rolled up high fishing out money from the fountain in Old Montreal, nobody ever said a word. One day, I made two dollars and 25 cents, which goes a long way at the dep, especially a dep that reeks of old beer and cigarettes and rat droppings. First bicycle, a blue one, secondhand (we were immigrants), 3 speed, but wait, who is that driving the taxi and what does he have in his hand? Don't go closer, must go closer, what is he doing with his hand and what is he asking me, what is he doing with his hand what is he doing with his hand what is he doing with his hand, pedal hard and pedal fast. The city also teaches.

Fast forward and pause. Young, adult and back in the centretown, back on St-Laurent with the cockroach store with the stinky leather jackets and the badass shoes, steep incline, past the trendy sophisticated restos where my bro works valet, a quick nod down Prince Arthur, but focused up the Main past Warshaw (RIP). I no longer live these streets, my hood is elsewhere now, gentrified, middle class, with a driveway. But these streets remember me, and they grit and grind at my passing, recognizing me as a daughter. The city breathes me.

Act the first

2004-08-27T09:39:00.000-05:00

A woman sits in a café sribbling furiously and muttering somewhat to herself. Her coffee is stone cold by now, but she's used to it, taking sips gingerly now and again and shuddering with distaste. She's pushed the coffee as far away as it will go right to the edge of the table without actually falling off, but continues to think of it with affection, a rightful participant in the coffee shop ritual, more than a prop, really, a supporting actor, a character actor, even. A time will come when she gives up coffee altogether for the clear taste of Earl Grey tea, but the time is not now, when we meet her, at the cusp of the new millenium, not now, as she sits with edgy energy, nervous, anxious, manic. This energy that she likes so much, that she thinks is cool, post-modern and witty, makes her drink the cold coffee and scribble scribble scribble in her notebook, like an aging Harriet the Spy. There is constant chatter and constant bustle in her head, in the coffee shop, until you don't know which is which anymore. The staff in this particular establishment is the epitome of Montreal cool, moonlighting as barristas in betwen DJing gigs and editing a lounge-lifetsyle webzine, except that this is just before lounge-lifestyle, so the webzine is but a glimmer in their eye as they chat and flirt with patrons and each other. Especially each other. It is that energy. It is that energy that she feels, that she generates, that has no outlet. She watches people walk by on the street in front of the coffee house. Downtown walkers with that dowtown walk. Her longing to be a part of the world is palpable, you can reach out and touch it, it pulsates. And so she drinks her coffee, cold, and scribbles in her notebook, and dreams and wishes, knots twisting in her stomach at the half-formed vision, watching people, watching herself. You just know she's going to go nova.