reason 234 why i shouldn't be allowed in the kitchen

Ever seen the cookbook "Help! My Apartment Has a Kitchen"? If not, I can happily forward you one of the several copies gifted to me over the years by the well intentioned, usually given while accompanied by some variation of "I thought of you as soon as I saw it".

Having never lived down phone calls to family members asking how to know when broccoli is done cooking or what an ozen is (as if it's some kind of intuitive knowledge that 'oz' is short for 'ounce', not 'ozen'), I've stopped reaching out for help. Instead, I soldier on in silence, disposing of countless dollars worth of irreparably scalded pots and inedible food in the privacy of my own home. Although this has effectively stopped gifts of "Cooking for Dummies" and the like, it's done very little to improve my cooking. As if to remind me of my missing 'kitchen gene' after these months away, today I gave myself a cooking injury during my first real foray back into my kitchen.

Knowing that I return to the life of poverty-stricken student next week, I decided to get into the role a bit early by preparing a batch of soup from the most inexpensive vegetable I could think of - celery. My reasoning was this: celery is cheap, I'm broke and I distinctly remember going through a Cream of Celery Campbell's Soup phase; how hard could it be to make it myself?

To be fair, it's probably not the most difficult meal to prepare. And it may have turned out ok if I hadn't forgotten to secure the lid on the blender. And if the soup, fresh from the burner, hadn't exploded when I turned the blender on. And if I didn't have these welts covering the entirety of my left forearm. Who knew that celery soup, in addition to being an inexpensive meal, also holds the potential to scalds the @#$ out of your skin.

I will be accepting all meal invites for the duration of this poverty-stricken student year.

back home

British Airways taunted me with Finland throughout the flight home surrounding me with Finns speaking that inexplicable language, featuring Helsinki in their inflight magazine and playing "Sybellius" (Finland's unofficial anthem) on heavy rotation on the inflight entertainment system. Luckily, my seat mate was happy to distract me with incessant talk about her PhD thesis on health promotion in rural Finland. In between drinks, that is. A whole lot of alcohol was consumed in seat 28J, I think she must be still in the research stage regarding the definition of health.

The Canada customs team dedicated to implementing their ridiculous 'lets push these overtired passengers over the edge' procedures ('security measures' they call them) made the process of actually getting into Canada incredibly difficult. They put up a good fight but they were no match for this Canadian; me and my suitcase full of undeclared ayurvedic potions made it home with the help of my accomplice (aka: mom).

Toronto is sadly lacking in strangely flavoured sparking water, a city population that embraces summer with complete abandon, and men named Mikko but it's good to be home. As always, I'm amazed by the amount of space I have and more so by the amount of 'stuff' I have filling it. My first morning home found me, still in pajamas, buried in my closet pulling out clothes to send to Goodwill. I've been eating my weight in vegetables and have decided to plan all future trips so my homecoming corresponds with corn season.

Although I defied all odds by finding my mobile, I can't for the life of me remember how to turn it on. Yeah, I'm serious. Please email me your phone numbers, they're stored in the mobile phone from now on to be referred to as 'fort knox'.

unbelievable

The 'baby' in the apartment below me still cries every morning beginning between 3:30-4:00am and carrying on until well after I drag myself out of bed to practice.

Granted, I don't actually have a baby myself but I'm pretty sure that whole 'crying through the night' routine is something they're supposed to grow out of. Before the age of 2.

Sigh.

final dog story

Some final pictures from Finland. The first two are from Suomenlinna, an island fortress just a ferry ride away from downtown Helsinki. The rest are cottage pictures including one of me reading a Finnish children's book about, what else, dogs making this my final 'dog entry' for this trip. I promise.


Hobbit houses on Suomenlinna



More ferry traffic, moving between Helsinki harbour and Suomenlinna on their way to Tallin or Stockholm


Mikko & Utu whistling songs accompanied by Mikko's beloved apple


On my way to the sauna


Reading Utu a story about Koira's (dogs) where I butchered the Finnish language (but made her feel miles more confident in her English, I'm sure)

good intentions

Well, I've tried ignoring emails, news, blogs and just about anything else connected to that irritating little thing called 'reality' but it turns out, reality won't be ignored. This is my last post from abroad, I go home this week.

There are so many things I'm looking forward to: shopping at the bakeries and greengrocers along Bloor Street, taking a bath, rollerblading in the beaches, being back in my own kitchen, hiking the Bruce Trail, sitting in Yorkville watching the beautiful people drift by, early morning coffee in moonbeam cafe, painting my apartment, and rediscovering my city - it's such an amazing city.

The months before I left to travel were a waiting period of sorts, I felt disconnected and unenthused but it didn't matter because I was leaving. I remember this when I think about coming home and it worries me. Free from my job and a student again, I'm also free from the frameworks I've relied on for too long to define what I do, who I am, what I'm all about. This, of course, was kind of the point when I decided to make some changes and it's liberating but scary. 'Home' no longer holds a picture in my mind; I remind myself that this means that I'm free to create something new, I promise myself that I'll create something fantastic, and I work to keep that intention.

Yoga

In what I'm thrilled to find is, apparantly, a universal tradition, Finnish cottage-time consists of sleeping in late, eating too much food, taking afternoon naps and, in our case, yoga. To avoid 'mökkihöperö' (cabin fever) we drove into Turku for a great vegetarian meal, a movie and, first, some yoga in the Turku shala. Below, photos for avoiding 'mökkihöperö' becca & mikko style (the last one is me ;).

the summerhouse

For months I've been hearing about 'the summerhouse' - the lake, the sauna, the...sauna...and...did I mention the sauna? In what appears to be common knowledge to everyone except myself, the Finns are crazy about their saunas. For weeks after I arrived in Finland most incoming emails included the question 'So, have you had a sauna yet?'. How did you people all know this? Since arriving, I've learned a great deal about saunas, more, really, than the average person actually should have to know, including this: it's not just an outdated stereotype, the Finns really do like their sauna's. As it was best explained to me, the summerhouse is really just an excuse to have a sauna.

Originally, I was far more curious about the idea of a 'summerhouse', it's such a grand name, did summerhouse mean cottage cottage or Muskoka cottage? After a while, though, I cared less about the building and more about the sauna. The idea of voluntarily moving from lovely, warm room to cold lake and back again really didn't seem too appealing but, having had several nights of 'the sauna' I somewhat grudgingly admit that I'm a convert. It's a lovely tradition.

I can also report that 'summerhouse' translates to cottage cottage, as in a proper A-frame, wooden building fronted by a wall of glass windows overlooking the lake and a porch swing that I've made my temporary home. Pictures below.


Me & Hannu being rock people


Eppu & Katsa preparing to brave the lake


Eppu & Katsa rowing & the sauna off in the distance


Shaving

Contrary to what the Finns may think...

This


is NOT a Canadian Goose.

Stockholm

When I was a kid I, like every other girl my age, was ridiculously jealous of Vicki, the Captain's daughter from the tv show 'The Love Boat', because she got to live on a real, live cruise ship. I mean, how cool is that? Turns out, not very.

While it didn't take my fickle, pre-teen mind long to realize that Vicki had a bowl cut, a one way ticket to the land of the very uncool; cruise ships still seemed kind of neat, like a floating summer camp. This was before last weekend's 16 hour overnight ferry ride from Helsinki to Stockholm after which cruiseships, like Vicki, have been stripped of the illusion of coolness.

That's not to mean that it wasn't fun. I can't tell you how surreal it was to enter the disco in the middle of a karaoke cover of Nine Inch Nails' "I want to f* you like an animal" being belted out complete with strong nordic accent. Or how good the feeding frenzy, aka breakfast buffet, was even though they tried to be cute by disguising some kind of crazy fish pate as peanutbutter. And there was tax-free shopping (as they reminded us over and over and over) which we took full advantage of by buying a whole chocolate bar. No, it was all fun, just, not exactly cool is all I'm saying.

We skipped the bingo, magic shows, 23€ buffet dinner, disco, and lounge acts to chill on the top deck much of the time and it was gorgeous. The view presented from the deck as we approached Stockholm in the morning and of the archipelago as we departed in the evening is not something I'll forget anytime soon. Our time in Stockholm itself was lovely and lazy: meandering through the city punctuated by frequent stops in parks, cafes and an amazing vegetarian restaurant overlooking the harbour for a late lunch with the charming Christofer before returning to the boat.

Pictures below. As with the pictures from Turku, these aren't mine (except, of course the ones of Mikko - I took those ;), I'm piggybacking on Mikko's talent again. Enjoy.

Ferry traffic



Taking pictures in Stockholm


Me & Christofer, coffee by the harbour


Christofer and Mikko on the way to Christofer's gallery



Watching the sunset


Sunset from top deck


Arriving in Helsinki, Sunday morning

another hard day as a tourist

Saturday was a day of sightseeing. We began in Naantali which I knew only as home to the President's summerhouse and Moominworld. Moomins are deserving of their own post altogether but, for those reading in the west, they're the equivalent to our Smurfs only infinately better; strangely melancholic but strong and optimistic at the same time. People often have 'their' character, the one they identify most strongly. Growing up with the Smurfs, I had a choice of Smurfette or uh...Smurfette (the only female character whose distinguishing characteristics were limited to her long blond hair, her love for strong smurf, and her disdain for brainy smurf) the Moomins have a far richer cast of characters and they're just amazing, click here if you're curious.

I expected Naantali to be like our Canada's Wonderland/Vaughan area where the amusement park came first and the suburbs built up around it. Instead, Naantali was a gorgeous seaside town with weathered wooden homes, cafes and artisian shops. Moominworld, along with the exasperated parents and overexcited kids that I'm sure accompany it, is relegated to an island slightly offshore from the town.



After Naantali we returned to Turku to visit the castle, old town and have dinner. Unfortunately, the sightseeing was kind of limited to this ferryride across the river. Due to the demands of the increasingly hungry tourist, the castle was closed by the time we got there.



After dinner we headed to the park to say hello to the ocean, play along the shoreline, and bask in the evening sun. It was a very good way to end the day.

a dog show of another nature

My tendancy to judge a city by its dogs was questioned this weekend while visiting Finland’s oldest city, Turku, where I was exposed to another kind of dog show altogether.

The Finnish saying “ulkoiluttaa mäyräkoiraa”, which loosely translates as “taking the dachshund out”, refers to picking up a 12 pack of beer typically called a dachshund because of its shape. As the weekend approaches and the weather holds there is a noticeable increase in the number of dachshunds making the rounds. Last weekend’s visit to Turku coincided with an annual music festival ‘Down the by the laituri (pier)’ held by the river running through the city and, let me tell you, it was a veritable dog exhibition.

I’m beginning to think that it’s just my city that holds an intense dislike for pesky people cluttering up the sidewalks because Turku, like many cities I’ve visited, seems to understand that cities are meant to be lived in as opposed to moved through. Accordingly, those attending the festival weren’t simply allowed to enjoy the public spaces, they were encouraged to. Roads were closed for pedestrian traffic, people lined the riverbank (dachshunds close by), and long lineups for riverboat restaurants were made more bearable by restaurant service while they waited.

Questions about people being ‘allowed’ so close to the river’s edge (what if someone fell in?), public drinking and, my god - is it always so easy to find parking here? were met with patience and a furrowed brow as if to say “What else would you expect?” and I began to feel like a gauche North American. I would expect to park at least 1/2 an hour away, that the areas where we were allowed to have fun to be clearly marked and cordoned off, and a very heavy police presence lest someone lose themself and try to drink in public - in the daytime no less.

In one of those stupid tourist moments, I was thrilled when a woman (who had clearly spent several hours ‘taking out the dog’) bumped into us and was moved to yell “VOI VITTU”. Voi vittu just so happens to be my only Finnish swearword and, although I don't have an exact translation, I know that it is very, VERY bad. Probably the kind of phrase that I would never actually use if I knew what I was saying but damned exciting to hear it in real, live action from the mouth of a real, live Finn and actually know what the heck they were saying because, believe me, THAT doesn't happen very often.

who needs dr. spock?

In my postings from India I referred a couple of times to the 'whirlywhirl bird', my favourite bird whose crazy (and non-stop) call puts me immediately in an India state of mind; well, it turns out that 'whirlywhirl' is less its actual official name and more the completely bogus name that I made up. In a conversation with the lovely Anu (of Anu's Internet Cafe) shortly before I left I learned that its real name is Koel, it looks like a crow, and it parents by sneaking into another birds nest, laying its egg and then leaving. Forever.

As someone who plans to be a mother someday, is it wrong that I think that last bit is absolutely freaking brilliant?

One website had this to say about the Koel's parenting style:
"The Common Koel is a brood parasite, that is, it lays its eggs in the nests of other bird species. A single egg is laid in the host's nest and once hatched the chick forces the other eggs and hatchlings out of the nest. When the chick leaves the nest it roosts in the outer branches of a tree, cheeping incessantly while the significantly smaller parents desperately search for sufficient food to satisfy the nagging youngster. This is a full-time job, as the young Koel will grow to nearly twice their size over the next four to six weeks."

'Brood parasite'? I think that's a bit harsh. Forget Dr. Spock, someone give this bird an award. Nipping sibling rivarly in the bud, nagging parents to provide food, refusing to leave the nest? Seems pretty ingenious to me. In fact, I'm quite sure I know a couple of human incarnations of the Koel ;)

www.amonline.net.au/factsheets/common_koel.htm

judging a city by its dogs

As I was telling some friends about my travels of the last few weeks, my recollections of each city visited invariably included an observation about the dogs: Prague, crowded, hot, all dogs met some unspoken prerequisite that they be a daschund (or some kind of mix thereof); Barcelona, really hot, fun, ‘real’ sized dogs; Salzburg, gorgeous, clean, dogs paraded as status symbols; and Mysore wonderful yoga, dogs that provide protection but rarely get walked.

I like dogs. They’re straightforward, honest, and genuine, whats not to love? I’m one of those idiots on the sidewalk who thinks its ‘nice’ to greet dogs as they pass so it’s not really a surprise that they factor so high on the list of things I’d notice about a city, I tend to interact more with them than with people.

After ten days of whirlwind travel with my mother and aunt, I’m back in Helsinki where the dogs have very long tails and the promises of April have been fulfilled: Helsinki is a gorgous place to be in the summertime. The transition from my very silent, hermit like existence in Gokulam to non-stop travel and the company of others in Europe was a bit rocky but they had the patience of saints in ignoring the fact that my every sentence began with the phrase “In India...”.

There is so much happening inside this head of mine. I’m striving to stay centered, to be where I am, and not let myself ricochet with sadness, anxiety, worry between past and future events without stopping where I am because right now, this moment, this is a good place to be. It is literally a second-by-second endeavour to remind myself to be where I am but so far, so good.

After 29 hours of travel and 40 hours without sleep I arrived in Munich, Germany to meet my Mother & Aunt. Air India decided to hel me overcome my sadness at leaving India by turning my departure into the most horrendous travel experience ever. I truly thought nothing could trump 12 hours as the only passenger on a pig barge riding downwind in a sweltering Laotian summer while fighting off the advances of the crew who, until I joined them, counted the pigs as their only company. I was mistaken. Congratulations Air India, not only did you make me desperate to get on with my journey but you've topped the pigs.

I've been in Europe for three days and have visited three different countries in as many days, pretty much the polar opposite of my two months rooted in sleepy little Gokulam. This, perhaps, is a blessing; I'm tired, my head is spinning and we're moving so fast that I can barely register which country I'm in let alone what I've left behind.

I'm a very bad tourist in that I consistently miss the biggest tourist attractions in favour of drifting through a city, sitting in parks, and returning to my hotel room to nap instead of making the most of my time there. After three days of travelling with my mother and aunt I now understand, I've been travelling Deeley-style. It's so nice to travel with others with as little inclination to visit the torture tower or whatever the 'big sight' is as I have.

My mother has surprised me with her penchant for window shopping and I've discovered that she's only escaped the teasing we heap on our father for his determination to conquer airports because none of us had ever travelled with her through a European train station. Until now. Yikes.

I'd been worried about how I would practice while sharing a room with others but mornings have emerged as one of my favourite times. When the alarm goes off at five, my aunt is usually already awake and leaves to explore the waking city while I practice (in the hall) and mom sleeps. After practice I return to bed to read and drowse for a few hours before breakfast. Today Gwyn returned from her walk with an apple torte and coffee enjoyed from a pile of thick down pillows and rich cotton duvets. Absolutely lovely.

It's the mornings I know I'll remember best in the years to come. That and the sound of the 'Deeley-cackle', the combined sound of my mother and aunt on a laughing jag, floating around European hotel rooms with dark wooden panelling and strange furnishings.

last day

Every night before bed I head to my roof where I lay and look up at the evening sky peeking through the palm trees; it’s one of my favourite times of the day and something I’ll miss most when I leave, this is my last day in Mysore. Last night as I lay listening to the unique Indian cacophony of barking dogs, tv’s, horns, neighbours’ voices and the rustle of palm fronds, a wave of anxiety washed over me as I asked myself whether I’ve accomplished what I came here to accomplish. And the answer is, I don’t know.

It's both a difficult question, I don’t really know what I hoped to accomplish while I was here, and an irrelevant one, I didn’t arrive with any expectations I just wanted to sit somewhere, practice, and see what came up. I did that, so, I guess the answer is yes, I accomplished what I hoped to accomplish ;)

It’s been a wonderful, wonderful trip. Yesterday during my last practice I stretched into upward dog, face turned up, shoulders pressing back, chest open to the room and felt such intense gratitude for this thing: this yoga. It truly is my teacher, my therapist, my religion and my well. Nothing has been the same since my last trip in December and, while I have no idea what will come in the aftermath of this one, I expect that it too will reveal itself slowly in the space of the months to come.

I leave for Frankfurt at 3am tonight to meet my Mother & Aunt for an impromptu (and whirlwind) tour of Salzburg, Prague and Barcelona before returning to Helsinki to see if the rumours are true; that Finland really does allow summer weather to grace it’s shores.

hey, you, step away from that counter!

This is me at Bombay Tiffany's, Mysore's best sweet shop:




See how I'm looking away from the counter all innocent like? That's because I'm not supposed to be there. Whatever you may have heard about travelling in India, dodgy food/water and and travellers who return home poor little skeletons - that doesn't apply to me. Maybe its the immense amounts of sweets, thick, rich dairy, and carb overload that comprises just about every meal; but each time I come to India I return home several pounds heavier.

This time I was determined not to let that happen and the first critical step in this plan was to avoid Bombay Tiffany's, home of Mysore Pak (or, in my case, better known as Mysore Crack). Mysore Pak is a sweet made from ghee (butter) and jaggery (sugar) with a bit of flour thrown in for substance - what more could I ask for in a food?

I did pretty well for a while, managed to delay the inevitable resumption of my addiction for about a week into my visit before succumbing, but all it took was one visit, one taste, and I was a gonner. All I can say about my complete lack of restraint is that its been sweet, very sweet :)

texts from the last few days

I've mentioned before the huge difference I've noticed in having a mobile with me this time around. The biggest difference being that there is no shortage of things to do here in Gokulam and, this time, I actually get to hear about them! Due to fatigue and in lieu of an actual posting (that would require actual energy), I present a sample of text messages received over the last few days:

"Mistress of Spices - english film - starring Ash. Rai sun @ 11 skyline talkies. meet there or @ kaveri lodge by 10.30"

"Samba & Dance party is on! SriVara Manor frm 19.00. Numbers r. tite"

"B-fast @ 9 @ s.star. Posso trip to Brind Gardens @11"

"Gokulam outdoor theatre presents 'dude, who stole my car' tonite, 19.15 at our place"

In other news, I've only 5 days left in Gokulam and have been blessed with the most gorgeous of weather for my last week - blue skies, hot sun and fluffy clouds. When not sitting on my roof soaking in the sun, sights, smells and sounds of India I've been busy stuffing myself with chikoo and mango which I will miss so very much when I leave. Otherwise, I'm still in no rush to leave and am very happily enjoying my remaining time in the Shala, in my flat and in Gokulam overall.

it's time to disco

Last night I rented Kal Ho Na Ho, a bollywood movie that spawned last years big hit "It's Time to Disco". Throughout the entire movie something was bothering me, niggling at the back of my mind, but it took me ages to put my finger on it. Then I began to piece it together: the CN Tower looming in the background, a sign for the St. Lawrence Market, the BCE Place posing as the leading man's very important workplace - the movie (set in NYC) was filmed in Toronto. So strange to be sitting in India watching a Bollywood movie, a genre so unique to India itself, only to be looking at the streets of my hometown.

When I was packing for my trip I included a couple of boxes of Ryvita bread and a bag of Fazer chocolates as a treat figuring that, with careful rationing, they would last me the duration of my visit. I'm just about done the last box of Ryvita, I've only a few chocolates left, and my remaining days can now be measured in single digets; however, I feel nowhere near ready to go. I suspect that this sentiment will be repeated fairly often in the days to come but promise not to harp on it, the weather has turned gorgeous, there's more to do than days to do it in, and I'm enjoying the time I have left here.

Notes from 10 years ago

Before I left for India I copied some of my journal entries from years past with the thought of turning them into something else while I was here. I haven’t quite gotten around to that yet but I have been browsing through them as I wait for the rain to stop and the series below made me smile. They’re from 1996, written during that very confusing year after I’d graduated from university and was trying to figure out just what I was to do with myself.

April 10, 1996
I got a job as an Assistant in a computer personnel company. Every time I tell someone about it I feel like crying. The part of me that dreams of saving the world, backpacking across Europe, living in another country, being a rehabilitation counsellor feels like it's being crushed by this permanent, full time, Assistant job. I’m afraid I’ll look back in 10 years and I’ll still be someone’s Assistant in some business. I was dressed for my interview this morning and I looked at myself in the mirror - this yuppie, efficient-looking assistant thing - and I felt such despair. I turned to my sister and said ‘I don’t want to be this person’. And I still don’t but, as of April 15, I will be.

April 16, 1996
I started my new job yesterday. I get up at 6am to catch the train in and wait until 7.05pm to catch the train home. Yesterday I got home at 8pm, ate two peices of cold pizza, went to the gym and was in bed by 10.30. I’m too young for this life.

April 24, 1996
I’m on the train on the way into work. Two girls who can’t be any more than a year older than me are are sitting beside me talking about their lawns and what fertilizers are best. A very detailed discussion about the dramatic difference noted when fertilizer X was replaced by fertilizer Y. Lord, if I ever reach the point where fertilizer becomes the most interesting thing to talk about at 6am in the morning please just do the merciful thing and strike me dead on the spot. Thanks, b.

Yesterday I was wishing I could skip ahead in my story right now to make sure things turned out ok. Obviously, can’t do that. But I can provide an epilogue to the entries above these 10 years later:

Quit the Assistant’s job within the year to backpack around Europe and never really stopped travelling, haven’t worked as anyone’s Assistant again (or in the for-profit world for that matter), did work as a Rehabilitation Counsellor and liked it, have never had a conversation about fertilizer - but the desire to own my own house with an actual lawn that I would actually have to fertilize is building.

well....

One of the things I love most about being here is that any line of questioning about what someone does at home is very often met with the kind of drawn out “Well....” that indicates there’s a long story behind the answer. Last visit I responded to questions about what I do with a firm answer, this visit I’m part of the “Well...” group. Mysore is the perfect place for transition, or rather, resting place for those in transition and this time, I’m no exception.

I leave Mysore in less than two weeks and I’m beginning to think about what comes next. Last night I dreamt that I stepped off the plane in Germany and started to cry because I realised that I was one step closer to returning home to a life that I haven’t missed once. Of course, there’s my family and friends but, perversely, I tend to be in better contact with them when I’m away than when I’m at home so, although I may miss their physical presence, they’re very much a part of my daily life.

I really don’t know anymore where I belong. Where I should be. What I should do. That’s more of a surprised observation than a complaint; I don’t really mind it all that much but I am a bit bewildered by it. Where do you go when you don’t know where you belong? What do you do when you no longer no what you’re supposed to do? How do you dream, plan and move forward when you don’t know where you’re going anymore?

I know. You just begin where you are and you pay attention. It’s just that when the ‘you’ I speak of is actually me, it’s that much more striking how disorienting change is. I have ideas of what form I’d like life to take and I know I'll end up somewhere different from where I started so my bewilderment is accompanied by excitement and, of course, an edge of uncertainty. No one can say what lies ahead. If this were a book I’d be sorely tempted to jump ahead to the ending to see how things turned out but, it’s not a book, it’s my life so I’ll just begin where I am and take it from there.