Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Road Trip

Over the years, the cottage my father helped his father build 30 years ago has deteriorated sharply, not unlike its owner, and we’re really not sure what to expect. As my father, aunt and I sit in the car on our way, listening to the faint Senegalese music of Baaba Maal waft out of the speakers, he barely says a word. I’m so used to the mile a minute banter that he used to keep up that I find it necessary to start talking in his place.

When we finally get there, two and a half hours later, he says something like “I’m going to go in and see how it looks, just wait here,” as my aunt and I look at each other apprehensively on the road. There is so much snow around, in front and on top of the house, an entire lifetime worth of snow it seems, that simply getting to the house is no easy task for my for no longer so spry father. When he finally does, and turns the key in the door, it sticks and he has to push on it a few times. The wooden frame has swollen around the door. Suddenly it gives and he disappears into the house.

Its quiet for what seems like an eternity, probably more like ten minutes, when he finally emerges looking crestfallen. “It’s going to need a lot of work,” he says, “and watch your step.” I crawl over the snow banks leading to the house first and then turn my gaze to my aunt who quickly sinks into the snow and loses her boot.

This is the first of many times that this happens.

She good-naturedly interprets it as a sign that it’s time to go on a diet. By the time she gets to the front door she is crawling on her hands and knees, bootless and sockless, and laughing hysterically. This breaks the tension and somewhat prepares us for the scene we are about to witness.

***

The house is a mess. Like... unbelievable.  Every room is literally upside down and everything is on the floor. Every dish is dirty, a lot of them are covered in mould, and they’re strewn throughout the kitchen which for some reason no longer has a floor. Also gone is the fridge. In its place lie a pile of tools and metal scraps. The counter seems to have been ripped out of the wall as well.

There are two huge saws hanging ominously on the wall in the washroom. The living room seems to be serving the sole purpose of housing part of my father’s extensive National Geographic collection (almost as extensive as his Playboy collection) as well as the couch, which no longer has legs and is turned over on its side.

My old bedroom seems to have a leak, or something, as there is a huge puddle of water by the bed. More magazines, as well as books, papers and newspaper clippings, riddle the floor along with old photos, clothes and heavy machinery. Right.

The front room is full of shovels, hammers and clubs, a weaponry of sorts.

“Mr. PĂ©quin must have come in here with a hose and let it run. I noticed some chairs outside that looked like they had been thrown. He probably did that too,” says my father about the neighbour, a long time enemy.

My aunt and I look at each other silently asking the same question “Who’s responsible for the rest of this?”       
  
My father goes on the roof to start shovelling snow as my aunt and I decide on the best way to set about cleaning the house. We have no cleaning products, not even a sponge, but find some old paper towels and decide to boil some snow, for water.

“I have to go to the bathroom, don’t go outside,” says my aunt with a wink after a while. When she comes back in, she’s surprised at how nice the kitchen looks. “Wow, great job!”

When my dad returns from the roof a few hours later the house is looking much better. We eat dinner, a delicious meal of bread, smoked salmon and cheese with tomatoes and grapes, and talk about where to spend the night. We had planned on sleeping at the cottage but it’s still so dirty, and damp, that none of us have the heart for it. In the end, we decide to spend the night at my aunt’s cottage nearby.

We pack our bags, lock up and climb over the snow back to the car. For good measure, my aunt falls through the snow a few more times.

She isn’t laughing anymore.

***

In the car, I notice some tears in my dad’s eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask not-so-nicely, “are you cold or crying or what?” I had only seen him cry twice before, once when his father died and then one other time after that. “Both, I guess,” he says. “I can’t believe I let that happen, I let a lot of things go, I guess.” 

When we get to my aunt’s cottage, I climb through the basement window and then run upstairs to let them in. On the way to the front door, my dad slips and falls on some ice. I hear him yell loudly in Polish. He spends the rest of the night complaining about the pain in his neck (his neck???) while my aunt and I try and cheer him up.

“I’m in pain,” he says for the millionth time. “You know what would make me feel better?”

And then he answers his own question.


***  I have always wanted to publish a short story or work of fiction. I decided to do it on my own blog just because I can.

Friday, April 26, 2013

Friday five

Everybody has their own soundtrack. If life is like a movie then it only makes sense. 

On the show Ally McBeal each character had their own internal theme song and at the time, somewhere between 1997 and 2002, mine was ABC, by the Jackson 5. Probably because I worked as a shelver at a library and it somehow seemed fitting (as well as motivating).  

These days I don't so much have one theme song as I have... five!

Madness by Muse has been running through my head almost constantly and one of the happiest moments I experienced recently was driving with the window open on spring while the almost theatrical song wailed defiantly on the radio.



Stay by Rihanna has also been on constant replay, in my mind at least, for the past week. I have to a admit a certain fondness, shall we say weakness, for music released by certain pop artists, like Rihanna, JLo and even, yes, Britney Spears, and this latest by RiRi is no exception. Catchy and melancholy. Gotta love it.



Thrift Shop by Macklemore, on the other hand, had to grow on me. The first time I heard the song, or rather saw the video, I thought it was a joke. Literally. And not a good one. Somewhere between that time and now it really grew on me... like mould, some might say.



I've had my grandfather on my mind lately and as such two of the songs that he used to sing while driving to the cottage have also been on my mind. I tried finding "perfect" versions, ones that really paid homage to my memories, but not surprisingly none do. Kalinka, written in 1860, and Ochi Chernye, interpreted from a poem originally written in 1843, are the songs.  

I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
   

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Before midnight

There are probably about five movies that have really marked me and Before Sunrise, with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy, is one of them. I remember watching the (dare I say cringe-worthy) scene where Jesse and Celine uncomfortably listen to a song in a music booth like it was yesterday and it always brings me back to the "root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life."  


That moment, and film, defined for me at the tender age of 20 what love was all about. 

It was something that happened between two people who connected at an almost cellular level and could be content no matter where they were, how much money they had or what they were doing.

“This is all we need. A couple of smokes, a cup of coffee, and a little bit of conversation. You and me and five bucks.” (Spoken, strangely enough, by the Hawkester in another one of my defining movies; Reality Bites.)  

But it was also something fleeting, ephemeral.

When Before Sunset came out nine years later I was overjoyed and also forced to reconsider. Jesse and Celine were being given another chance. True, a lot of time had gone by, Jesse had been married and divorced and Celine had experienced a string of seemingly loserish relationships but hope was not yet lost.  

And now, yet another nine years later, the story has come full circle. Jesse and Celine are married. They have children. And, by the looks of the trailer, they are still in love.


"Sometimes I feel like you're breathing helium and I'm breathing oxygen." Ha!

I first read the happy news about Before Midnight, the third and presumably last installment chronicling one of the greatest love stories of all time, this morning while perusing Lainey Gossip. It. Made. My. Day. 












here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)



* All pictures were taken in Vienna except for the last one which was taken in Paris. The poem is by E. E. Cummings.





   

Friday, April 19, 2013

Friday five

I had the great pleasure of visiting a mecca of Asian food yesterday: T & T. For those of you who haven't yet had the pleasure of shopping at T & T, the country's largest Asian supermarket, let me explain: aisles and aisles of rice, noodles and hot sauces, the freshest produce around and of course, assorted guts!


Today's Friday five is all about my favourite Asian foods (and assorted guts, by the way, is most definitely not one of them). 

In fifth place is bibimbap, the Korean dish made with rice, vegetables, meat and an egg. I first tried bibimbap when I lived in Toronto and worked for a delightful Korean couple. They would always make sure to feed me after a particularly hard day of work and I shared many a delicious Asian meal with them. 

Thai food or anything cooked with coconut milk comes in fourth. I first tried Thai food in Thailand (lucky me) and absolutely love the combination of basil, hot sauce and coconut milk.

In third place is dim sum, the Cantonese specialty consisting of small, individually prepared dishes, including lots of steamed dumplings. Literally meaning "to touch your heart" dim sum is a great way to start a Sunday (as well as a great post night out cure). 

Pho soup is literally like chicken (or beef) soup for the soul. Delightfully flavoured with cardamon, cinnamon, cloves, fennel and star anise and full of rice noodles, bean sprouts and basil, its is the best thing to eat when you're feeling under the weather (or the weather just isn't cooperating). 

First place comes as no surprise to anyone (who knows me) and is, of course, SUSHI. Actually it's sashimi and salmon sashimi specifically. While eating raw slices of salmon doesn't float everyone's boat it is literally my absolute favourite thing in the world.  

Next to hot dogs.










Thursday, April 18, 2013

Soul patch

Spring has (nearly) sprung and though there is still one (stubborn) little corner of the yard covered in snow, I've decided to start "getting the earth ready" (if that is something that is even done). 


I'd like to plant some tomato and eggplant, because according to Canadian Gardener they thrive in full sun, as well as some basil, mint, cilantro, lavender, rosemary and sage (sorry parsley and thyme, it's nothing personal). 


Though there's not much I can do before May 2-4 weekend I'm super psyched.

Many moons ago I planted my first vegetable garden. I wasn't sure how it would turn out but I ended up having more tomatoes than I could shake a stick at.


Mmm, mmm lycopene.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Art or shmart?

"The whole street is just kind of like, 'Oh yeah, the dolls.'" 

The dolls in question number in the hundreds. They adorn the fence, lawn and even the front of the house. They're creepy (in my opinion) and I definitely don't get what they're doing there.

But some people might call it art.

The doll house is a two-storey, semi-detached in Leslieville - a great neighbourhood in Toronto's east end that I had the pleasure of living in some years back - that is literally decorated with hundreds of dolls. The first time I came across it I was on my way to the gym, taking a leisurely walk down a tree-lined and sun-dappled street.

It was quite a sight. It definitely provoked a reaction. Does that make it art? Or shmart?

I asked myself a similar question not long ago in Montreal, when I first saw a parking metre wrapped in a scarf.  


My father, who I was with at the time of the sighting, quickly launched into a (rather comical and off-topic) tirade about how young people should spend their time leaf  sweeping, so as to prevent the sewage drains from overflowing, "instead of wasting it being scarf artists." 

Ummm... okay. That's one way of looking at it.

Since that time I've seen quite a number of public poles (that sounds weird) wrapped in a variety of fabrics. Referred to as "yarn bombing," "yarn storming" and even "knit graffiti," the practice consists of wrapping public architecture with knit or crocheted material. Apparently it was started by a group called Knitta Please in Texas in 2005.  




Ummm... okay.

All I know is that I'm coocoo for birdcages!