I discovered peanut butter. And it was good.
Now that I'm safely out of the country, I can talk freely about this. The Finns have something against peanut butter. Five weeks in Finland without peanut butter, it was an exquisite form of torture. I searched the shelves of every grocery store I entered and always found the same sketchy brand, usually just one lone and dusty jar, sitting ignored on the bottom shelf of the jam section. After a while, I looked just for sport, just to see if I could find that one grocery store that understood the importance of the almighty peanut spread.
Coming from a country that dines almost exclusively on breads, you think they'd be open to a bit of variety but every time I lamented the loss of my beloved PB I received looks similar to what I you'd expect had I suggested something really gross like, oh, I don't know, adding rye to everything (oh, but wait...;). When I booked my ticket to India, one of the first things I thought about was the dealer outside the shala; the guy who sells tofu, banana bread and peanut butter out of his blue duffle bag each morning.
It's taken me a few days to catch him but yesterday I wandered outside after practice and the heavens sang - the blue duffle bag was there in its rightful place sitting on the wall. Within minutes I was the proud owner of my own jar of peanut butter and I rushed home where, with a tear in my eye, I enjoyed it with a piece of flatbread I'd brought with me from Finland. And, yes, if you must know, it was rye. After five weeks, some things grow on you.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Thursday, May 18, 2006
laundry
How is it possible to slip so easily from one life to another? To adjust to the 8 roads that comprise my daily stomping grounds. To settle so comfortably in a flat that required only incense, candles and a brightly coloured mat to become more home than home. To slide into a rhythm operating at a quarter of the pace of my normal life? After three days I’m amazed at how completely, happily at home I am.
I sit by my window reading and prepare meals which I take to my roof to watch life on the street move through rhythms of it’s own - that’s enough. Days move slowly when practice is finished by 7:30am but they seem to fill. My list of ‘things to do’ is rationed slowly, saved to distract me from those idle times that I know will come: first coffee at Coffee Day, not yet; Fab India, maybe on Saturday; brunch at the Metropole, some other time. This happened my last visit as well and I left without actually getting to any of those things. That’s what happens here, at least for me. How is it so easy?
I wonder what my landlords think of me, the mother up at 5am to brush the front walk, the MBA student busy studying for her finals; what do they think of me always here in front of my window, doing nothing? I wonder what they would think if they knew how hard this doing nothing can sometimes be? How I slowly ration my list of things to do so that I don’t get fitfull - all this time and nothing to fill it. And I feel silly, spoiled and pampered.
The servant comes, my mind naturally jumps to replace the term ‘servant’ with it’s Western connotations, to ‘cleaning lady’ and I don’t know what to do with myself. Where to stand, what to say, what to do. I sit outside in my chair,dissociating myself from the situation while my landlady supervises the cleaning and I’m uncomfortable; sitting here typing isn’t right either. I don’t understand that my garbage should have been placed beside me, outside the front door, for the garbage collecter to pick up, even though we were all standing there talking when he arrived. Instead, I walked to meet him, garbage bag extended, smiling my thanks. This was wrong, my discomfort grows. The cleaning lady takes my clothes to the side of the house to launder and I cringe, afraid that including my underwear in the pile was also wrong, that I’ve added to the list of social norms I’ve transgressed already.
My job means nothing here, even when simplified to ‘Counsellor’. Because I work at a university people usually grasp at that to mask their confusion and assume I’m a teacher, I teach psychology. I’m uncomfortable lying but even more uncomfortable trying to explain what I really do, most can’t comprehend the need for a role like mine. India gives me time to question myself: What do I do? Cleaning lady or servant, its just semantics, what am I really uncomfortable about? Why ration my list of ‘things to do’, what’s to fear from the void of truly having nothing to do?
In the time it’s taken me to write this, my laundry is done and my underwear, bright scraps of cotton, strung carefully across the line running the length of the front yard. This embarrasses me more than anything else that’s passed this morning and I calculate just how long I must wait until I can pretend they’re dry and bring them inside to finish drying here.
I sit by my window reading and prepare meals which I take to my roof to watch life on the street move through rhythms of it’s own - that’s enough. Days move slowly when practice is finished by 7:30am but they seem to fill. My list of ‘things to do’ is rationed slowly, saved to distract me from those idle times that I know will come: first coffee at Coffee Day, not yet; Fab India, maybe on Saturday; brunch at the Metropole, some other time. This happened my last visit as well and I left without actually getting to any of those things. That’s what happens here, at least for me. How is it so easy?
I wonder what my landlords think of me, the mother up at 5am to brush the front walk, the MBA student busy studying for her finals; what do they think of me always here in front of my window, doing nothing? I wonder what they would think if they knew how hard this doing nothing can sometimes be? How I slowly ration my list of things to do so that I don’t get fitfull - all this time and nothing to fill it. And I feel silly, spoiled and pampered.
The servant comes, my mind naturally jumps to replace the term ‘servant’ with it’s Western connotations, to ‘cleaning lady’ and I don’t know what to do with myself. Where to stand, what to say, what to do. I sit outside in my chair,dissociating myself from the situation while my landlady supervises the cleaning and I’m uncomfortable; sitting here typing isn’t right either. I don’t understand that my garbage should have been placed beside me, outside the front door, for the garbage collecter to pick up, even though we were all standing there talking when he arrived. Instead, I walked to meet him, garbage bag extended, smiling my thanks. This was wrong, my discomfort grows. The cleaning lady takes my clothes to the side of the house to launder and I cringe, afraid that including my underwear in the pile was also wrong, that I’ve added to the list of social norms I’ve transgressed already.
My job means nothing here, even when simplified to ‘Counsellor’. Because I work at a university people usually grasp at that to mask their confusion and assume I’m a teacher, I teach psychology. I’m uncomfortable lying but even more uncomfortable trying to explain what I really do, most can’t comprehend the need for a role like mine. India gives me time to question myself: What do I do? Cleaning lady or servant, its just semantics, what am I really uncomfortable about? Why ration my list of ‘things to do’, what’s to fear from the void of truly having nothing to do?
In the time it’s taken me to write this, my laundry is done and my underwear, bright scraps of cotton, strung carefully across the line running the length of the front yard. This embarrasses me more than anything else that’s passed this morning and I calculate just how long I must wait until I can pretend they’re dry and bring them inside to finish drying here.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
getting settled
Kind of feel like I should add something to bump the entry from earlier this morning down, I know people will be worried.
After a good night's sleep, practice and the move from my hotel to my flat, I've had a lovely day. I spent the morning unpacking and the afternoon fluttering around from room to room just being happy - I'm in love with my flat. Everything from the pink walls to the granddaughter who keeps popping in to yell 'Auntie' at me before running away to the mosquito net I've suspended over my bed; it's perfect. That last bit, the mosquito net, I don't actually need but it reminds me of the princess beds I coveted when I was little and I like it.
I took a walk to the only bank machine in Mysore that accepts my bank card. Thankfully, that hasn't changed, but there have been other changes. The construction across from the Stand Up Chai is done and what I thought was going to be a jewellers is actually a pharmacy. It's quite nice so I'm trying to think of something I need so I can drop by. Several flash new restaurants have opened up in the same area as the Green Leaf and there's a new cafe in town to give Coffee Day a run for its money. But not an air conditioned run for it's money so I'll be sticking with Coffee Day for the next few weeks.
Last stops were the Himalaya shop to buy the ayervedic shampoo, lotion, and vitamins I can't buy at home and Loyal World for groceries before returning home to nest some more. So. It's been a good day. Maybe the lesson I'm to learn while I'm here is how not to get caught up in the Maelstrom of my emotions, to remember how quickly things change, because I sense that this is going to be a very solitary visit and there will be times again where I'm feeling sad just as there will be wonderfully content and happy afternoons like this one.
After a good night's sleep, practice and the move from my hotel to my flat, I've had a lovely day. I spent the morning unpacking and the afternoon fluttering around from room to room just being happy - I'm in love with my flat. Everything from the pink walls to the granddaughter who keeps popping in to yell 'Auntie' at me before running away to the mosquito net I've suspended over my bed; it's perfect. That last bit, the mosquito net, I don't actually need but it reminds me of the princess beds I coveted when I was little and I like it.
I took a walk to the only bank machine in Mysore that accepts my bank card. Thankfully, that hasn't changed, but there have been other changes. The construction across from the Stand Up Chai is done and what I thought was going to be a jewellers is actually a pharmacy. It's quite nice so I'm trying to think of something I need so I can drop by. Several flash new restaurants have opened up in the same area as the Green Leaf and there's a new cafe in town to give Coffee Day a run for its money. But not an air conditioned run for it's money so I'll be sticking with Coffee Day for the next few weeks.
Last stops were the Himalaya shop to buy the ayervedic shampoo, lotion, and vitamins I can't buy at home and Loyal World for groceries before returning home to nest some more. So. It's been a good day. Maybe the lesson I'm to learn while I'm here is how not to get caught up in the Maelstrom of my emotions, to remember how quickly things change, because I sense that this is going to be a very solitary visit and there will be times again where I'm feeling sad just as there will be wonderfully content and happy afternoons like this one.
hazards of jetlag
So, I cried myself to sleep last night. That was fun. Actually, I guess it was to be expected. I was jetlagged and I don’t do well on 2 hours of sleep at the best of times so the walls came crashing down. I was tired of being tired, of change, of being the tourist, feeling lonely, missing familiar people, sights and customs, not knowing where I belong and, above all, I was tired of thinking about it. Is the unexamined life really not worth living or am I so busy examining the moment that I’m missing life? It’s a balance I still haven’t been able to find.
But then, things change. This morning’s practice was so absolutley right. I lifted my head half way through my practice and knew that there was absolutely nowhere else I wanted to be. This is the place.
I secured a very cute apartment yesterday. I had planned for shared accomodation to make sure I socialized at least a little bit but nothing appropriate came up. My place is on the same street that stayed on my last visit, two houses down from my old apartment, which makes me happy. It’s got good energy and I know the area. I’ve got a front room where I'll spend ages in front of the window reading & watching life go by, a second room that I’ll probably write in, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom and, of course, a roof where I’ll spend hours and hours. And the walls are all painted pink. Kind of like that.
Gokulam is definately quieter at this time of year, although I expect June and July to be busier. I was the only new registrant yesterday. When I went to the shala at 6:30am there was no one waiting in the front hall, several spots were already open, and mats were spaced well apart from one another. Sharath is very present so it’s a different practice than it was in December when Guruji and Saraswati were the main teachers.
But then, things change. This morning’s practice was so absolutley right. I lifted my head half way through my practice and knew that there was absolutely nowhere else I wanted to be. This is the place.
I secured a very cute apartment yesterday. I had planned for shared accomodation to make sure I socialized at least a little bit but nothing appropriate came up. My place is on the same street that stayed on my last visit, two houses down from my old apartment, which makes me happy. It’s got good energy and I know the area. I’ve got a front room where I'll spend ages in front of the window reading & watching life go by, a second room that I’ll probably write in, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom and, of course, a roof where I’ll spend hours and hours. And the walls are all painted pink. Kind of like that.
Gokulam is definately quieter at this time of year, although I expect June and July to be busier. I was the only new registrant yesterday. When I went to the shala at 6:30am there was no one waiting in the front hall, several spots were already open, and mats were spaced well apart from one another. Sharath is very present so it’s a different practice than it was in December when Guruji and Saraswati were the main teachers.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Gokulam part deux
Usually it's the smell that gets me, the unmistakeable mix that lets me know I'm back in India. After surviving 11 hours on a plane in front of the demon child of lucifer himself, I must have been exhausted because, this time it was the lush greenery and bright bursts of flowers bordering red dirt roads that caught me: oh yeah, I'm back! Back in Mysore, India for two months of practice.
Was at my hotel at by 7am and slept a bit before heading to town. Went to Shakti House (former Kev-Inn) for breakfast, exchanged money, talked to Shiva about finding accomodation, organized my mobile phone and am catching up on email before heading to the shala to register. The fact that I have a mobile really tickles me, I NEVER use my mobile at home but here I am, on holiday, fully hooked up. Strange.
Gokulam is much quieter this time around, I can feel it. It's a strange experience, returning to this place I've visited before. I'm at once happy to be back, feel like I never left, excited about the unknown weeks ahead, and nostalgic for the way things were the last time I was here. I'm reminded of just how true this is: "We cannot step in the same river twice, neither I nor the river are the same." -Heraclitus
And, Finland saw fit to document my departure from the country - proof that the touristi is, in fact, gone...
Going...
Going...
Gone :)
Was at my hotel at by 7am and slept a bit before heading to town. Went to Shakti House (former Kev-Inn) for breakfast, exchanged money, talked to Shiva about finding accomodation, organized my mobile phone and am catching up on email before heading to the shala to register. The fact that I have a mobile really tickles me, I NEVER use my mobile at home but here I am, on holiday, fully hooked up. Strange.
Gokulam is much quieter this time around, I can feel it. It's a strange experience, returning to this place I've visited before. I'm at once happy to be back, feel like I never left, excited about the unknown weeks ahead, and nostalgic for the way things were the last time I was here. I'm reminded of just how true this is: "We cannot step in the same river twice, neither I nor the river are the same." -Heraclitus
And, Finland saw fit to document my departure from the country - proof that the touristi is, in fact, gone...
Going...
Going...
Gone :)
Page 1, Air India inflight magazine, waiting for takeoff.
Is this really the first impression they want to make?
“Dear Passenger,
As an erroneous impression has seemingly been created by reports regarding maintenance of aircraft, in the wake of an incident involving a leased aircraft in our fleet, I would like to take a few minutes of your time to apprise you of the factual position. Of the 25 leased aircraft in our fleet, one aircraft was unfortunately involved in three incidents of tyre bursts at take-off...reports tended to give an impression that there was something amiss in the maintenance of our aircraft. This is just not the case.”
Haven’t read the reports they’re referring to, but suddenly not feeling so good about the 10 hour flight that lies ahead.
“Dear Passenger,
As an erroneous impression has seemingly been created by reports regarding maintenance of aircraft, in the wake of an incident involving a leased aircraft in our fleet, I would like to take a few minutes of your time to apprise you of the factual position. Of the 25 leased aircraft in our fleet, one aircraft was unfortunately involved in three incidents of tyre bursts at take-off...reports tended to give an impression that there was something amiss in the maintenance of our aircraft. This is just not the case.”
Haven’t read the reports they’re referring to, but suddenly not feeling so good about the 10 hour flight that lies ahead.
back in india
"I yank my hand from his, pick up my backpack and storm towards the plane. He yells after me, 'You, madam, you come back to India, you come for love, you love it, you love us again.' I break into a run, push onto the plane and sink into my seat. As we take off I give smog-swirled New Delhi the finger. 'Goodbye and good riddance, India, I hate you and I'm never, never, ever coming back." Holy Cow, Sarah Macdonald.
The first time I travelled to India, I hated it. Absolutely hated it. I was sad that I’d disrupted my life to come to this dirty, brown country where young boys begged me for ‘just one kiss on my penis’ and each day was conducted within the framework of knowing that I was being ripped off. I hated the pollution. I hated the way children, women and animals were treated. I hated the chaos. Then, as my trip wore on, my perspective changed and I realized that what I really hated about India was myself.
I remember the moment when I decided that the reason I was brought to India was to discover that I didn’t like myself very much. Watching the sun set over the ghats in Pushkar, I realized that this judgemental, complaining, negative person wasn’t at all the person I wanted to be and I resolved that the lesson I would take from India was to shut up, stop complaining and just see things. As simple as it sounds, it marked an epiphany for me. After that, I loved India. Loved it then and love it now.
India acts as a mirror. It’s one thing to be flexible, tolerant, and open- minded from the comfortable structure provided by home; to pretend I’m not attached to material needs when my car sits parked outside and I try to decide what to wear to work that morning; to think that I’m patient when interactions with people in my community can be measured in seconds. India challenges all of these notions. That first trip I learned that it’s possible to accept things without endorsing them, that to accept that something doesn’t mean I agree with it, it just means that it is what it is. It was a very necessary lesson at that point in my life.
The passage below is from the end of my journal from that first India trip. This time, I have two months to see what kinds of lessons find their way to me.
Have I been ‘beaten down’ as I once wrote I’d have to be in order to accept things here? Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just experienced the surprises, thrown my hysterical fits to no avail,and simply know what to expect. I don’t think it’s resignation but, rather, acceptance. Maybe that’s the difference. I accept India. I don’t know that I like it any better but I stopped fighting it and was able to enjoy it. India is what it is - that’s that. India, August 2000
The first time I travelled to India, I hated it. Absolutely hated it. I was sad that I’d disrupted my life to come to this dirty, brown country where young boys begged me for ‘just one kiss on my penis’ and each day was conducted within the framework of knowing that I was being ripped off. I hated the pollution. I hated the way children, women and animals were treated. I hated the chaos. Then, as my trip wore on, my perspective changed and I realized that what I really hated about India was myself.
I remember the moment when I decided that the reason I was brought to India was to discover that I didn’t like myself very much. Watching the sun set over the ghats in Pushkar, I realized that this judgemental, complaining, negative person wasn’t at all the person I wanted to be and I resolved that the lesson I would take from India was to shut up, stop complaining and just see things. As simple as it sounds, it marked an epiphany for me. After that, I loved India. Loved it then and love it now.
India acts as a mirror. It’s one thing to be flexible, tolerant, and open- minded from the comfortable structure provided by home; to pretend I’m not attached to material needs when my car sits parked outside and I try to decide what to wear to work that morning; to think that I’m patient when interactions with people in my community can be measured in seconds. India challenges all of these notions. That first trip I learned that it’s possible to accept things without endorsing them, that to accept that something doesn’t mean I agree with it, it just means that it is what it is. It was a very necessary lesson at that point in my life.
The passage below is from the end of my journal from that first India trip. This time, I have two months to see what kinds of lessons find their way to me.
Have I been ‘beaten down’ as I once wrote I’d have to be in order to accept things here? Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just experienced the surprises, thrown my hysterical fits to no avail,and simply know what to expect. I don’t think it’s resignation but, rather, acceptance. Maybe that’s the difference. I accept India. I don’t know that I like it any better but I stopped fighting it and was able to enjoy it. India is what it is - that’s that. India, August 2000
Sunday, May 7, 2006
freakin' finland
I'm cold approximately 11.5 months out of every year so, if you've spent any time with me outside of that brief, glorious period when the weather is juuust right, you've probably heard me complain that "It's freakin' Baltic in here". I never really gave it much thought, its something my sister used to say that caught my fancy and seemed to sum up just how terribly, horribly, uncomfortably cold I was. Then I went to the Baltics.
Turns out, the Baltics aren't so Baltic after all. In fact, I owe them a very big apology because the Baltics were downright balmy, particularly compared to the Helsinki weather I'd left behind. For several days I roamed Tallin and Riga, face turned up to the sun, with jokes of changing my favourite 'holy crap it's cold phrase' from "It's Baltic in here" to "It's Finland in here" running through my mind. Then I returned to Helsinki.
What a difference a week can make. I've returned to a whole new city. I left a city still wrapped in scarves with just hints of green here and there and returned to sandles, beach chairs on patios, and riots of flowers in full bloom complementing trees that have suddenly turned green. It's gorgeous and it's warm. It seems my time of juuust right weather has finally arrived.
As an aside: I'm staying near the park that houses the Sibelius Monument and I have yet to visit it without my arrival coinciding with that of a tourbus damning me to enjoy the view among hoards of other, noiser, tourists. Today, of course, I arrived at the same time as a tourbus but it was the strangest thing; instead of making a beeline for the monument like most groups, everyone disembarked from the bus and headed straight for a mallard duck, cameras clicking madly. We stood there, Sibelius Monument ignored to the side, tourists staring at the duck, duck staring at me, me gaping at the whole scene and I mentally shrugged my shoulders while addressing the duck: "Hey, don't look at me - I don't get it either".
I remain yours from not-so-baltic-finland, r.
Turns out, the Baltics aren't so Baltic after all. In fact, I owe them a very big apology because the Baltics were downright balmy, particularly compared to the Helsinki weather I'd left behind. For several days I roamed Tallin and Riga, face turned up to the sun, with jokes of changing my favourite 'holy crap it's cold phrase' from "It's Baltic in here" to "It's Finland in here" running through my mind. Then I returned to Helsinki.
What a difference a week can make. I've returned to a whole new city. I left a city still wrapped in scarves with just hints of green here and there and returned to sandles, beach chairs on patios, and riots of flowers in full bloom complementing trees that have suddenly turned green. It's gorgeous and it's warm. It seems my time of juuust right weather has finally arrived.
As an aside: I'm staying near the park that houses the Sibelius Monument and I have yet to visit it without my arrival coinciding with that of a tourbus damning me to enjoy the view among hoards of other, noiser, tourists. Today, of course, I arrived at the same time as a tourbus but it was the strangest thing; instead of making a beeline for the monument like most groups, everyone disembarked from the bus and headed straight for a mallard duck, cameras clicking madly. We stood there, Sibelius Monument ignored to the side, tourists staring at the duck, duck staring at me, me gaping at the whole scene and I mentally shrugged my shoulders while addressing the duck: "Hey, don't look at me - I don't get it either".
I remain yours from not-so-baltic-finland, r.
Saturday, May 6, 2006
riga, latvia
Sometimes when you'’re travelling you just have to throw in the towel and decide to be a very bad tourist. Last night was my night. Thanks to the #$% world hockey championships quadrupling accomodation prices in Riga I was only staying one night so, realistically, I should have made the most of my time there. Instead, I travelled 3 hours by ferry, 5 hours by bus and paid 146euro’s for a bath. That wasn't exactly the plan, of course, it' s just kind of the way things turned out.
That's not to say that I didn'’t like Riga. I loved it. All I really knew about it in advance was that it was close enough to Tallin, Estonia that it would be a shame not to visit while I was in the area so, I did. The drive through the Latvian countryside made me wish for my own car and days with which to wander the small towns with their orchards and winding creeks. Once I arrived in Riga, the walk from the bus station to my hotel alone was enough to make me wonder how I could possibly put the energy of the city to words. Riga was gorgeous and cosmopolitan and teeming with life. The world hockey championships had attracted packs of tourists with crew cuts, hockey jerseys and painted faces but even their hollering couldn'’t detract from the relaxing atmosphere of the wide city squares, towering church spires and quiet side streets.
I wandered the town for a few hours and then returned to my hotel with the intention to relax before heading out again; I forgot to take my capacity for sitting around doing nothing into account. Despite my best intentions I didn'’t leave my room again until the next morning when I had to catch the return bus to Tallin. There were a few things conspiring against me, a bathtub and free wifi being at the top of that list. Instead of exploring Riga like a good tourist should, I took a long bath while listening to the CBC, talked to my family, and was in bed by 8:30pm for what would be 12 hours of the best sleep I've had in months. It was a great, great night.
Visiting Tallin and Riga has reminded me of how much I love travelling. How much I love wandering through new cities with nothing to do but take in new sights and wait for the inevitable, awesome surprises that will find me. But not on this trip. This trip isn't for backpacking, isn'’t for planning, isn'’t for moving, moving, moving. I just don't have the stamina for it this time out. This time, I need to find my place and be still.
That's not to say that I didn'’t like Riga. I loved it. All I really knew about it in advance was that it was close enough to Tallin, Estonia that it would be a shame not to visit while I was in the area so, I did. The drive through the Latvian countryside made me wish for my own car and days with which to wander the small towns with their orchards and winding creeks. Once I arrived in Riga, the walk from the bus station to my hotel alone was enough to make me wonder how I could possibly put the energy of the city to words. Riga was gorgeous and cosmopolitan and teeming with life. The world hockey championships had attracted packs of tourists with crew cuts, hockey jerseys and painted faces but even their hollering couldn'’t detract from the relaxing atmosphere of the wide city squares, towering church spires and quiet side streets.
I wandered the town for a few hours and then returned to my hotel with the intention to relax before heading out again; I forgot to take my capacity for sitting around doing nothing into account. Despite my best intentions I didn'’t leave my room again until the next morning when I had to catch the return bus to Tallin. There were a few things conspiring against me, a bathtub and free wifi being at the top of that list. Instead of exploring Riga like a good tourist should, I took a long bath while listening to the CBC, talked to my family, and was in bed by 8:30pm for what would be 12 hours of the best sleep I've had in months. It was a great, great night.
Visiting Tallin and Riga has reminded me of how much I love travelling. How much I love wandering through new cities with nothing to do but take in new sights and wait for the inevitable, awesome surprises that will find me. But not on this trip. This trip isn't for backpacking, isn'’t for planning, isn'’t for moving, moving, moving. I just don't have the stamina for it this time out. This time, I need to find my place and be still.
Friday, May 5, 2006
it's over
I think Tallin and I broke up. I should have seen it coming, the plethora of alcohol shops, 'gentleman's private clubs' on every corner, casinos galore...there were signs. But last night was the final straw. You know that thing that happens in couples when one person wants out but doesn't have the guts to say so, instead, they drive the other person to pull the breakup trigger by pulling every irritating stunt they can think of? Last night Tallin pulled that shit on me.
I can do without a lot of things when I'm travelling, except for sleep. That's my red flag. We'll be fine, just don't mess with my sleep. Tallin is so warm and sunny and gorgeous, I really wanted it to work so I was willing to overlook the first night with the loud partiers. And the second. Then last night Tallin upped the anti with the the construction crew outside my window and I broke. Two nights of interrupted sleep and last night none at all - Tallin wins. Since, you know, Tallin was there first, I left. I'm in Latvia.
I'm in Latvia and I'm lost. Just arrived and realized that I don't know the name, address, or general location of my hotel so I stopped for coffee and internet for reinforcements. Hope you all are well, more later.
I can do without a lot of things when I'm travelling, except for sleep. That's my red flag. We'll be fine, just don't mess with my sleep. Tallin is so warm and sunny and gorgeous, I really wanted it to work so I was willing to overlook the first night with the loud partiers. And the second. Then last night Tallin upped the anti with the the construction crew outside my window and I broke. Two nights of interrupted sleep and last night none at all - Tallin wins. Since, you know, Tallin was there first, I left. I'm in Latvia.
I'm in Latvia and I'm lost. Just arrived and realized that I don't know the name, address, or general location of my hotel so I stopped for coffee and internet for reinforcements. Hope you all are well, more later.
Thursday, May 4, 2006
note to self:
When the tourist information lady who clearly hates tourists tells you that the Kumu Art Gallery is only a half hour walk away, know that she is lying and don’t load up on water. When she tells you that you’ll definately see it from its place buried deep within the park from the road, know that she really hates her job, smile and go ask someone else for directions.
Do go for a wander to look for the gallery but happily give up after some time to enoy a glorious afternoon in the park. Find a spot in a big field littered by hundreds of tiny white flowers, watch that woman with her three puppies play, enjoy the sounds of dozens of birds just as happy that it’s spring as you are, and marvel at the fact that only yesterday you were feeling the tiniest bit lonely - make a mental note to remember how quickly things can change the next time you’re feeling low.
Oh, and when you happen to find the gallery on your way home, step in to use the washroom and make a mental note to visit it again on your next trip to Tallin; it is a very, very cool building.
Do go for a wander to look for the gallery but happily give up after some time to enoy a glorious afternoon in the park. Find a spot in a big field littered by hundreds of tiny white flowers, watch that woman with her three puppies play, enjoy the sounds of dozens of birds just as happy that it’s spring as you are, and marvel at the fact that only yesterday you were feeling the tiniest bit lonely - make a mental note to remember how quickly things can change the next time you’re feeling low.
Oh, and when you happen to find the gallery on your way home, step in to use the washroom and make a mental note to visit it again on your next trip to Tallin; it is a very, very cool building.
Tallin, Estonia
Today is a day made for sitting in an old, cobblestoned courtyard, basking in the sun. As soon as I stepped out of my hotel into the sunniest of sunny days, I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the art gallery today. It was too nice a day to be inside. Instead, I headed to the old town to find a courtyard I’d stumbled on yesterday; a tiny, sunny square with a french chocolatier/cafe and a small number of tables bordered by artisian shops. It took a ridiculously long time to find my way, the hazards of finding places when you’re already lost, but there was nowhere else I wanted to be so I kept looking. When I did find it, it was as quiet and sunny as I remembered and I spent ages sitting in the sun enjoying a cafe latte and one decadently huge, perfect truffle; a chain ‘moments’ strung together to create the best possible breakfast.
Tallin has been like that, a series of fantastic mistakes, happy surprises and wonderful moments. After leaving the ferry, I looked for the place with the most church spires, assumed that was the old town, and headed in that direction to find my hotel, which I did very easily. Shower and unpacking out of the way, my first stop was the supermarket where I stocked up on fruit, bread and found the holiest of holy sites - a bulk food aisle with dried fruit, pepitas, sunflower seeds and (the heavens sing) walnuts. None of this may sound like much to you but trail mix ‘a la becca’ is pretty much happiness in a bag for me, I knew I was going to like Tallin. And I have.
I’m not sure what kind of destination this would be for a person who needed to ‘do’ things but for a wanderer like me, it’s perfect. I’ve spent three full days here without really setting foot inside, just wandering from place to place and coffee to coffee. Tomorrow I leave for Riga, Latvia and I do it with some regret, I like Tallin, but I’ve heard wonderful things about Riga and @#$ world-hockey-championships-driving-hotel-prices-to-3X-their-usual-price aside, I’m looking forward to wandering there too.
Tallin has been like that, a series of fantastic mistakes, happy surprises and wonderful moments. After leaving the ferry, I looked for the place with the most church spires, assumed that was the old town, and headed in that direction to find my hotel, which I did very easily. Shower and unpacking out of the way, my first stop was the supermarket where I stocked up on fruit, bread and found the holiest of holy sites - a bulk food aisle with dried fruit, pepitas, sunflower seeds and (the heavens sing) walnuts. None of this may sound like much to you but trail mix ‘a la becca’ is pretty much happiness in a bag for me, I knew I was going to like Tallin. And I have.
I’m not sure what kind of destination this would be for a person who needed to ‘do’ things but for a wanderer like me, it’s perfect. I’ve spent three full days here without really setting foot inside, just wandering from place to place and coffee to coffee. Tomorrow I leave for Riga, Latvia and I do it with some regret, I like Tallin, but I’ve heard wonderful things about Riga and @#$ world-hockey-championships-driving-hotel-prices-to-3X-their-usual-price aside, I’m looking forward to wandering there too.
Tuesday, May 2, 2006
quick update
Arrived in Tallin, Estonia this afternoon and am head over heels in love with this city. Really.
Have fantastic pictures of this past weekend's Vappu celebrations to add to the previous two entries (so, no, I didn't take them ;) but am having difficulty uploading them. Will try again but, in the meantime, wanted to get the entries up before I lost the race against time with my battery.
Hope this finds you well.
Have fantastic pictures of this past weekend's Vappu celebrations to add to the previous two entries (so, no, I didn't take them ;) but am having difficulty uploading them. Will try again but, in the meantime, wanted to get the entries up before I lost the race against time with my battery.
Hope this finds you well.
Vappu Celebration
I began noticing it a week ago, odd sights attesting to the Helsinkian love for spring: a man in a pink feather boa here, a woman wearing fuzzy purple antennae there, an energy of pure, unadulterated celebration so thick you could almost see it in the air. When I mentioned these things to others I received the same response: just wait until May 1st.
The weekend of May 1st marked the weekend of Vappu which, from what I could gather, was a three day ‘graduation/woohoo it's spring’ celebration culminating in putting a white hat on a statue, followed by lots of drinking, concluding with a city-wide picnic in the park the following day. It was difficult to know, really, because whenever I asked for a clearer explanation I was told that Vappu couldn't be explained, only experienced. Turns out, this is true.
Take my ‘graduation/woohoo it’s spring’ definition and add labour day, new years eve, and your birthday and you may begin to get an idea of just how big a celebration Vappu is. This is a weekend where, quite literally, anything goes. Fuscia wig? Of course. Clown nose? Sure, why not. The old 'knife through the head' gag? Bring it on. In addition to the anything goes attitude, Vappua is also marked by traditional meals, attire, and, of course, drinking.
Although the drinking starts days in advance, one of the first 'official' act of Vappu is on April 30 when the city gathers in the Esplanadi Park surrounding a statue of a woman (whose name escapes me). At 6:00, amid cheering and champagne toasts, the statue is dressed in a white sailor-type hat signifying graduation from high school and the square becomes a sea of white as everyone dons their white hat as well. This part amazed me, people hang on to these hats for years, decades, after graduating from high school, and bring them out once a year for Vappu where, for two days, the city is filled with people in their white hats.
After this, the celebrating begins in earnest. And there really are no words. What I'm left with is a sense of a city that works, that understands that drinking will happen, noise will be made, celebration will take over the streets and, yup, there will be a mess so lets just make sure that everyone is safe in the process. We headed home around 11:00, very late for this yogi, and the streets were filled with revelers. In addition to the sight of the people in the square wearing white hats and carrying champagne flutes I add the sound of Helsinki that night, the underlying murmur of the streets alive with people celebrating hard but harmoniously, to my memory of Vappu. Or part of it at least, the celebration isn’t done yet, there’s still the picnic tomorrow.
The weekend of May 1st marked the weekend of Vappu which, from what I could gather, was a three day ‘graduation/woohoo it's spring’ celebration culminating in putting a white hat on a statue, followed by lots of drinking, concluding with a city-wide picnic in the park the following day. It was difficult to know, really, because whenever I asked for a clearer explanation I was told that Vappu couldn't be explained, only experienced. Turns out, this is true.
Take my ‘graduation/woohoo it’s spring’ definition and add labour day, new years eve, and your birthday and you may begin to get an idea of just how big a celebration Vappu is. This is a weekend where, quite literally, anything goes. Fuscia wig? Of course. Clown nose? Sure, why not. The old 'knife through the head' gag? Bring it on. In addition to the anything goes attitude, Vappua is also marked by traditional meals, attire, and, of course, drinking.
Although the drinking starts days in advance, one of the first 'official' act of Vappu is on April 30 when the city gathers in the Esplanadi Park surrounding a statue of a woman (whose name escapes me). At 6:00, amid cheering and champagne toasts, the statue is dressed in a white sailor-type hat signifying graduation from high school and the square becomes a sea of white as everyone dons their white hat as well. This part amazed me, people hang on to these hats for years, decades, after graduating from high school, and bring them out once a year for Vappu where, for two days, the city is filled with people in their white hats.
After this, the celebrating begins in earnest. And there really are no words. What I'm left with is a sense of a city that works, that understands that drinking will happen, noise will be made, celebration will take over the streets and, yup, there will be a mess so lets just make sure that everyone is safe in the process. We headed home around 11:00, very late for this yogi, and the streets were filled with revelers. In addition to the sight of the people in the square wearing white hats and carrying champagne flutes I add the sound of Helsinki that night, the underlying murmur of the streets alive with people celebrating hard but harmoniously, to my memory of Vappu. Or part of it at least, the celebration isn’t done yet, there’s still the picnic tomorrow.
Vappu Picnic, May 1
I had heard a lot about the picnic in the park. On May 1st, the last day of Vappu, people congregate in the park for an afternoon of picnicking. Although we skipped the picnic part, we went for a walk in the park so this tourist could see what a ‘real’ picnic was all about. When we left the tram, I didn’t even need to ask what direction to head in; I just joined the sea of white hats moving in mass migration to the park.
I knew the picnic was a big event but, for some reason, had assumed it was enjoyed mainly by high school and university students nursing hangovers from the previous night. I was unprepared for the crowd; a mix of old and young with transportation ranging from wheelchairs to strollers, some dressed in jeans and others in their Sunday best but most wearing that white hat. Brass bands, balloons, portable grills, collapsible shelters, blow up couches, bright blankets, candelabras on tables, and food - so much food - matched only by the presence of champagne enjoyed by all. It was an amazing, intergenerational celebration of graduation, of spring, of being there together. I can think of absolutely nothing like it in Toronto and no words to describe the energy of the city over these last few days. Below are a few pictures from the park.
I knew the picnic was a big event but, for some reason, had assumed it was enjoyed mainly by high school and university students nursing hangovers from the previous night. I was unprepared for the crowd; a mix of old and young with transportation ranging from wheelchairs to strollers, some dressed in jeans and others in their Sunday best but most wearing that white hat. Brass bands, balloons, portable grills, collapsible shelters, blow up couches, bright blankets, candelabras on tables, and food - so much food - matched only by the presence of champagne enjoyed by all. It was an amazing, intergenerational celebration of graduation, of spring, of being there together. I can think of absolutely nothing like it in Toronto and no words to describe the energy of the city over these last few days. Below are a few pictures from the park.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
gumbostrand & a pool of words
When I was 11, my mother, sister & I drove across Canada to attend Expo '87 in Vancouver. At the beginning of our trip I decided to dedicate a page in my journal to keep track of funny street/town names I saw on the way. I think I gave up somewhere around Wawa, Ontario (about 10 hours into our 6 day drive) once I realized the enormity of my undertaking. Still, all these years later, whenever I see a street or town name that strikes me as funny I mentally add it to that list. Today's addition: Gumbostrand. Seen from my bus window on my way here www.porvoo.fi/
Truth, Hate, Love, Lies, Dead - Kiasma Art Installation
The white words run in computer generated text across the black floor of a large, dark room. Grouped together and moving in a pattern I can't decipher, the words wash over and around me like small schools of fish "hate", "love", "lies", "truth", with the occasional "dead" thrown in when the words collide. Bathed in a pool of words. I loved it.
Truth, Hate, Love, Lies, Dead - Kiasma Art Installation
The white words run in computer generated text across the black floor of a large, dark room. Grouped together and moving in a pattern I can't decipher, the words wash over and around me like small schools of fish "hate", "love", "lies", "truth", with the occasional "dead" thrown in when the words collide. Bathed in a pool of words. I loved it.
Monday, April 24, 2006
oh no i didn't...
My 'to do' list from this weekend:
Saturday - 5:45, V For Vendetta, Conf # 32179
Sunday - Kiasma (Art Gallery)
Monday - Check into Russian visa
Even more than the inanity of actually taking the time to write these down is this: the only very important item I sucessfully completed was attending the movie on Saturday. Had I not booked it in advance that morning, I'm pretty sure that would have remained incomplete as well. I suck at 'to do' lists. And I'm on holiday - I can do what I want ;)
Today I was able to confirm something I've been suspecting since arriving in Helsinki; the squirrels here have big ears. Very. Big. Ears. I bet that the Finnish word for 'Squirrel' translates to English as 'Sqrabbit'.
That's right folks. I'm here all week...
Saturday - 5:45, V For Vendetta, Conf # 32179
Sunday - Kiasma (Art Gallery)
Monday - Check into Russian visa
Even more than the inanity of actually taking the time to write these down is this: the only very important item I sucessfully completed was attending the movie on Saturday. Had I not booked it in advance that morning, I'm pretty sure that would have remained incomplete as well. I suck at 'to do' lists. And I'm on holiday - I can do what I want ;)
Today I was able to confirm something I've been suspecting since arriving in Helsinki; the squirrels here have big ears. Very. Big. Ears. I bet that the Finnish word for 'Squirrel' translates to English as 'Sqrabbit'.
That's right folks. I'm here all week...
Friday, April 21, 2006
runnin' from god
I was a good tourist today, I went to the Uspenskin Katedraali (Russian Orthodox Church). Although I made it inside, I followed my usual 'holy crap I'm in a church' strategy of hovering around the entrance peering at whatever was visible from my post near the door. I have an aversion to churches. More than an aversion, really, they freak me out.
I've got the routine down: I think I'll be ok, enter the church, tentatively make my way inside trying to lose myself in the high, arched ceilings and hushed sounds, but then the walls begin to close in and I panic before rushing for the door. I know, its all in my mind but it feels real enough to me. Enough so that I generally avoid churches. I preferred waiting outside in the rain to taking shelter inside a local church with friends; ran out of the most peaceful church in Bayonne, France; had a panic attack in Westminster Abbey because I could NOT find my way out; and it took me until my third visit to Paris before I could bring myself to enter the Notre Dame (and then only to light a candle for my family). Churches make me feel the way I imagine claustrophobic people must feel - suffocated, panicked, unable to breathe. It's no one thing that gets me, it's the overall energy. I figure it's the legacy I've been left with having grown up Catholic (recovering Catholic, my dad calls it).
I remember when finally, ten years after finishing high school, I found the beauty in Catholicism. I was reading a book that contained a long passage from the bible with a message along the following lines: don't worry about yesterday, it's gone. Don't worry about tomorrow, it hasn't arrived yet. Don't even worry about right now - God is present. Instead, feel the sun on your skin, watch the birds, smell the flowers and know that God is taking care of you, there's no need to worry.
I was so angry when I read that. Why didn't I learn about that in my 13 years of Catholic schooling? Why, instead, do I remember standing in line in grade 3 trying to make up a credible sin to share in Confession because I couldn't think of a real one (and then laying awake in bed all night certain I was going to Hell because I'd lied in confession)? Why, after my parents' divorce, did I feel what hypocrisy was from the Church parishioners long before I actually knew the word? Why was I told, at 16 years of age, that I was going to go to Hell (sure, I was an irritating 16 year old but, really, to go to Hell for it?)? Why wasn't I encouraged to stop, enjoy the moment, know that a great power was there for me?
I've found my own ways of honouring the divine but when I think about the years spent in the Catholic system, the sheer number of us receiving the same wrathful, guilt-ridden messages instead of being exposed to the empowering and beautiful messages that also existed - I get angry. Such a waste.
Related but different news from Helsinki: the view from the church was absolutely gorgeous and I felt, for the first time since arriving, a hint of what true spring/summer in this city could be like and it was a fabulous moment.
I've got the routine down: I think I'll be ok, enter the church, tentatively make my way inside trying to lose myself in the high, arched ceilings and hushed sounds, but then the walls begin to close in and I panic before rushing for the door. I know, its all in my mind but it feels real enough to me. Enough so that I generally avoid churches. I preferred waiting outside in the rain to taking shelter inside a local church with friends; ran out of the most peaceful church in Bayonne, France; had a panic attack in Westminster Abbey because I could NOT find my way out; and it took me until my third visit to Paris before I could bring myself to enter the Notre Dame (and then only to light a candle for my family). Churches make me feel the way I imagine claustrophobic people must feel - suffocated, panicked, unable to breathe. It's no one thing that gets me, it's the overall energy. I figure it's the legacy I've been left with having grown up Catholic (recovering Catholic, my dad calls it).
I remember when finally, ten years after finishing high school, I found the beauty in Catholicism. I was reading a book that contained a long passage from the bible with a message along the following lines: don't worry about yesterday, it's gone. Don't worry about tomorrow, it hasn't arrived yet. Don't even worry about right now - God is present. Instead, feel the sun on your skin, watch the birds, smell the flowers and know that God is taking care of you, there's no need to worry.
I was so angry when I read that. Why didn't I learn about that in my 13 years of Catholic schooling? Why, instead, do I remember standing in line in grade 3 trying to make up a credible sin to share in Confession because I couldn't think of a real one (and then laying awake in bed all night certain I was going to Hell because I'd lied in confession)? Why, after my parents' divorce, did I feel what hypocrisy was from the Church parishioners long before I actually knew the word? Why was I told, at 16 years of age, that I was going to go to Hell (sure, I was an irritating 16 year old but, really, to go to Hell for it?)? Why wasn't I encouraged to stop, enjoy the moment, know that a great power was there for me?
I've found my own ways of honouring the divine but when I think about the years spent in the Catholic system, the sheer number of us receiving the same wrathful, guilt-ridden messages instead of being exposed to the empowering and beautiful messages that also existed - I get angry. Such a waste.
Related but different news from Helsinki: the view from the church was absolutely gorgeous and I felt, for the first time since arriving, a hint of what true spring/summer in this city could be like and it was a fabulous moment.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
on the balcony you say?
Last week while visiting the friends of a friend we got on the inevitable topic of sleep or, rather, the lack of it courtesy of their gorgeous 3 month old daughter. Somewhere in the midst of the discussion the following phrase emerged "...put her out on the balcony and...". The comment slid by for a few seconds while my mind went through one of those "did I REALLY just hear that" moments and I had to rewind the conversation to clarify that I'd heard correctly. I had.
Apparantly, in Finland, babies take their naps outside. Yes, even in winter. This blew my mind. Still does. Granted, there are a couple of million Finns wandering around who don't seem any worse for the experience (although Finns seem to have beaten Canadians at our own game of being quietly reserved so, really, who knows what lurks beneath ;) and God knows I'd be the last to hold up Toronto as the poster child for happy, healthy child rearing. Not when comparing us to a country that grants 3 years maternity/paternity leave, seems to have grasped the concept of life/work balance as that which means leaving work at work at the end of the day, and seems to have social supports that actually work.
It's just that I've been running the various scenarios through my mind; ones where I bundle up my baby, place him/her in their carriage and roll them outside to the front stoop to nap for a few hours through my mind and there's not one scenario that actually works. Not one that doesn't include the intervention of the child protection agencies, that is.
Apparantly, in Finland, babies take their naps outside. Yes, even in winter. This blew my mind. Still does. Granted, there are a couple of million Finns wandering around who don't seem any worse for the experience (although Finns seem to have beaten Canadians at our own game of being quietly reserved so, really, who knows what lurks beneath ;) and God knows I'd be the last to hold up Toronto as the poster child for happy, healthy child rearing. Not when comparing us to a country that grants 3 years maternity/paternity leave, seems to have grasped the concept of life/work balance as that which means leaving work at work at the end of the day, and seems to have social supports that actually work.
It's just that I've been running the various scenarios through my mind; ones where I bundle up my baby, place him/her in their carriage and roll them outside to the front stoop to nap for a few hours through my mind and there's not one scenario that actually works. Not one that doesn't include the intervention of the child protection agencies, that is.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
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