Food and love... food is love

Like many people in this part of the world, I have a complicated relationship with food.

Thankfully, it’s not the eating that’s the complicated part.. just the cooking.

It’s not really surprising when I think about it. My mother didn’t learn to cook until she got married (at 39) in an era when it was taken for granted that wives were homemakers and cooks. But she grew up in a house with a cook and a maid and so never needed or had an inclination to learn.

It must have been a shock to suddenly realize that she would have to plan and prepare meals, learn to shop and buy food in a Canadian grocery store where so many of the foods were unfamiliar. Like many housewives of the time, she relied on the only thing that seemed familiar: bad British cooking. My childhood was replete with overcooked meat and boiled canned vegetables. Italian food consisted of macaroni and cheese. Fresh fruits and vegetables were unknown to me.

I did however bask in the delicious glory of my mother’s baking. Where she learned this, I don’t know but it was something that obviously came naturally to her. Most of all I remember her bread. The heavy moist smell of yeast rose up from underneath a damp linen tea towel covering her great stoneware bowl on the kitchen counter. My mother’s energetic punching and kneading of the billowing sticky dough. Loaves upon loaves would come steaming from the oven… brown and earthy, white and soft. Slathered in butter, it was the stuff that golden childhood memories are made of.

She made flaky, buttery pastry which became pies filled with blueberries or chocolate cream or lemon meringue or spicy apples. Tall – albeit often ever so slightly lop-sided – layer cakes swathed in butter cream icing. Crunchy, savoury baked fruit crumbles sparkling with her beloved Barbadian brown sugar.

Meal-times however were increasingly a minefield of barbed comments and marital warfare between my parents. We rarely had company over for dinner and so, rather than finding a natural pleasure in sharing food with friends and family, it became a weapon – its value diluted by quick, cheap fixes.

Thankfully, I’ve never had any qualms about eating, somehow managing to sidestep that horrifying generational legacy of obsession with weight and dieting, the fear and guilt over food that women often impart to their daughters. Aside from a brief, humourless fling with margarine, I enjoy eating food that is prepared with whole, natural ingredients (including sugar, butter, and bacon!) in satisfying quantities.

The problem of course is that I don’t like to cook. It’s not that I’m a bad cook – people tell me I cook quite well. I just can’t be bothered. I know I’m not alone… actually that’s a big part of the problem. Cooking for one is no picnic (pardon the pun but it’s actually quite appropriate given that in the summer I often simply make a sandwich rather than prepare a meal). The idea of flipping through cookbooks to find something appealing, shopping for ingredients (because of course there isn’t much in Mother Hubbard’s cupboard), and preparing a meal to be eaten alone isn’t terribly interesting… and to do that seven days a week!? The lead-up to having friends over for a meal is fraught with anxiety (damn you Martha Stewart and your Food Network cabal!).

And so truth be told, despite the fact that I love eating good food; that I champion whole/slow food cooking; that I love watching good food being prepared; that I revile over-salted, nutritionally-poor, prepared food… I eat it all the time. There, I’ve said it. My freezer is usually filled with a variety of pre-packaged entrees and my fridge rarely contains more than condiments, a few beers or a half-empty bottle of wine, and restaurant left-overs.

Chris would be so disappointed – not surprised, but disappointed nonetheless. He loved to cook. He was fearless and intuitive in the kitchen, somehow everything was ready at the same time and the flavours all complimented but never overwhelmed. I was his willing sous-chef, happy to chop and slice, measure and de-bone at his side. Being in the kitchen with Chris was like dancing – he led and I followed. And so now I stand alone in my preposterously well-equipped kitchen with Chris’ beloved Henckels pots and pans, his Wüsthof knives, his gadgets and cutting boards.

I could force myself to cook – hoping that by simply following a routine, I would eventually slip into a practiced pleasure of creating delicious meals from simple ingredients. Probably a naïve proposition…

I could engage the services of a personal chef or food delivery service. Choosing from a menu of options and having nutritious, ready-to-eat meals at the door or in the fridge – expensive but convenient…

I could eat out at restaurants several nights a week, bridging interim nights with left-overs. No doubt the inventory of worthwhile venues and willing company would quickly be exhausted and the exercise become even more tedious than actually cooking…

I could trek to one of those meal outlet stores where they have ingredients already chopped and prepared – you simply have to assemble what you want and cook it at home. Perhaps a practical solution bridging pre-packaged and healthy meals…

I could keep eating rubbish while watching Big Night, Babette’s Feast, Eat Drink Man Woman, Julie & Julia, or any other foodie movie – closing my eyes and imagining the smells and flavours of real food.

Or I could go to Italy or France for a year and learn what it is to simply enjoy good food as a normal part of every day life – without all the fretting and sub-zero refrigeration.

"The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you've got to have a 'What the hell?' attitude." ~ Julia Child
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How do I love thee... Oh Canada

Love letters come in many formats.

Sometimes they're compilation CDs. Sometimes they're scratched in the wet sand on a windy beach. Sometimes they're fresh-baked cookies.

The obituary I wrote for Chris was a love letter... for him, to him, of him.

Often we find ourselves thinking of the many things we wanted to tell someone we love when it's too late. "If only I had another chance." "If only I could do it differently this time."

What would you do... if you only had one week to live? What would you do differently?

The film One Week is director Michael McGowan's love letter to Canada. Without revealing any spoilers the basic premise of the film is the story of a young man with a full life and about to get married who is told he has terminal cancer.

What would you do?

He decides to hit the road - partly in flight mode, partly in the hopes of clearing his head and coming to terms with the shattering news he's just been given. Riding his motorcycle westward with no real plan in mind, the arc of his physical journey is also the story of his emotional journey.

Most of the time he's alone with his turbulent thoughts, the ever-changing landscape of Canada as the backdrop. Along the way he meets other people, each on their own journeys, and while these encounters are often fleeting, there are lingering changes that impact in ways great and small. By the time Ben reaches the Pacific ocean one week later his life has changed him... and he has changed his life.

For anyone who's travelled across Canada or lived in different parts of Canada, there are certain touchstones and symbols that need no explanations. But this is no hackneyed travelogue, the moments captured are touching and affectionate and breath-taking and ultimately vibrate deep in that collective Canadian psyche. Despite being a story of a young man facing death, there were many warm waves of laughter that rippled through the audience when I saw it in the theatre. This is an unabashedly Canadian story whose cultural reference may or may not resonate with audiences elsewhere.

Twenty years ago this summer, my university roommate and I loaded up her car Zelda and began a five-day journey to Vancouver. We were young and foolish and broke but life was full of adventure and tree-planting in Northern BC sounded like a great way to spend the summer making gobs of money.

We B&B'd with a Henry Fonda look-alike in the Sault and sang ad jingles along the shores of Lake Superior when the radio wouldn't pick up any signal and stood quietly in the shadow of Terry Fox outside Thunder Bay and took the ring road around Winnipeg and marvelled at tumbling tumbleweed and gazed into the blindingly blue cathedral skies of the Prairies and climbed higher and higher into the monstrous majesty of the Rockies and miraculously convinced a BC highway cop that Qubec didn't use front license plates and finally tumbled down through the great green Fraser River valley into Vancouver.

We didn't make gobs of money and I discovered I was a gardener, not a tree-planter, and I used Raid as hair spray and worked under the protective eye of a trained big game sharp-shooter and watched the sun barely slip below the horizon at 11:30pm and got my first tattoo from a guy with nipple rings and ate too much Baskin Robbins and discovered dim sum and spent my waitressing breaks reading on the beach and tasted bear stew with blueberry sauce and had pizza delivered to us on the Via train and cried tears of homecoming joy at seeing the light beacon atop Place Ville Marie and savoured every bite of Montreal smoked meat at 3am.

In the years since that summer, I've been lucky to have travelled to St. John's, Vancouver, and every provice in between for work and vacations. But of all those trips, it's that road trip which always resurfaces with the strongest emotions and memories. Perhaps because it was my first time seeing other parts of the country; perhaps because it was the company I shared; perhaps because it was our last summer of freedom before graduating into "the real world". It was the first time I really grasped the vastness and beauty of this country and how lucky I was to live here. Everyone should be so lucky!

Happy Canada Day - what are you going to do?
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The valley of my childhood

This is me and my childhood friend Glenn. We were pretty much inseparable from stroller to school bus. Our parents were good friends and we lived one block away from each other. Lots of holidays and summer days and nothing special days were spent together until we started school – he at the local English Catholic school and me at the local English Protestant one.

We used to go exploring in our neighbourhood, climbing rocks and trees, poking sticks into dark holes; we snuck popsicles from my house and then his on hot summer afternoons; we went tobogganing at the nearby hill; we played board games in our pyjamas; we divvied up our Halloween treats, bartering what we didn’t want.

As is the usual course of life we made new friends once we started school and began to drift apart. There were still birthdays and Christmases but we saw less and less of each other as the years flew by. Glenn and his family moved away when we were about nine or ten. After that we rarely saw each other aside from the occasional visit during summer vacations but by then our devoted childhood friendship had faded into our parents’ photo albums.

I recently found out that Glenn died last summer from complications of a second kidney transplant surgery. I had always known that Glenn had diabetes. He was diagnosed when we were little kids, but I never really knew much about it. I knew he had to have needles – that was about the extent of my awareness. It never occurred to me back then that he could die.

It’s been probably 20… 25 years since I last saw Glenn. My favourite memories of him feature a grinning, mischievous boy with dark unruly curls. I hope he’s still climbing rocks and trees, and exploring, and finding new adventures.

****************

WALKINSHAW, Glenn Kevin 1962-2008

On July 16, 2008 at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Montreal, QC at the age of 46 after complications from transplant surgery, Glenn passed away peacefully with his family by his side.

Glenn is survived by his mother Lorraine (nee Ward) Walkinshaw, predeceased by his father Albert. Beloved brother to Brad Walkinshaw (Mary), of Montreal, QC, and Jill Walkinshaw (Steven) of Orleans. Glenn will be fondly remembered by his nieces and nephews Rini and Amanda of Montreal, QC and Alexandria and Anderson of Orleans.

The family gratefully thanks the Dialysis Unit of the Riverside Hospital of Ottawa for their kindness and nursing care, and also the Royal Victoria Hospital Transplant team and the ICU Medical and Nursing teams for their care of Glenn since May 19, 2008.

A Mass in the presence of the ashes will be held at St. Patrick's Basilica, Kent at Nepean Sts., Ottawa, at 2 p.m. on Tuesday, July 22, 2008 with burial in the Botanical Gardens at Beechwood Cemetery in Ottawa.

In memory of Glenn, please consider the Juvenile Diabetes Association and remember to be kind to everyone. Rest in Peace, dear Glenn. We Miss You. "Live Free and Ride".
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Unexpected visitors

My mother used to tell the story of time her mother came to visit her. I wish I had paid more attention to the details of that story. As much as I peer into the thick darkness of that memory, I can’t remember when Mom said that Grannie Armstrong came to visit. But I do remember that it was after she had died.

I never met my mother’s mother. She died suddenly from a stroke, at the age of 70 – the year before I was born. When my mother got married and moved to Canada, she never saw my grandmother alive again. They were very close and I don’t think my mother ever got over the shock of that loss. She wrote of it in her diary. I hear the loneliness in her voice, thinking of being so far from ‘home’, trying to be a good wife in a strange, cold country.

My mother was not given to flights of fancy and, despite her struggle with depression, she did not experience hallucinations. She was a creative but also quite a practical person who worried that I was too “airy fairy”, as she often referred to my childhood day-dreaming. When my mother told the story of the night her dead mother visited her, I got goose bumps. Not because I was afraid but because I felt it to be so absolutely real and unarguably true.

My mother said that she awoke in the middle of the night, uncertain of the time. My father was working shift work that night and so she was alone. She described being suddenly wide awake, not struggling to shake off the cobwebby feeling one often has when roused from a deep sleep. Looking up she saw her mother sitting at the foot of the bed, hands folded in her lap. She smiled at my mother and my mother smiled back. They shared a long and loving gaze before my grandmother simply disappeared. My mother said she hadn’t been afraid and I could tell she was deeply comforted by the love and warmth of that singular experience.

I wasn’t able to be with my mother when she died and after she passed away I secretly hoped that I would receive a farewell of some kind from her. I had travelled to visit with her only weeks beforehand and she had rallied from a period of illness. Despite struggling with advanced Alzheimer’s she still knew me at our last visit. I spent hours with her each day, helping her eat, looking at pictures, telling stories. On our second-to-last day together, I remember telling her that I loved her and, being unable to reply in a full sentence, she pointed to me and mumbled “Love” with a smile. Perhaps that was her goodbye. I just wasn’t ready to hear it.

I desperately hoped for a visit from Chris after he died. His sudden and unexpected passing left a huge gash of emptiness inside of me and I thought that if I could see him once more and say goodbye, it might provide some comfort… some closure. Someone he knew had a dream about him soon after his death in which she saw him floating up in the sky with the energy of being free. In her dream he told her that it was so wonderful in the afterlife and that he was pain free and feeling vibrant again but that he was so sad to be away from his beloved Sandra.

I was jealous that she had heard his voice. Why hadn’t I heard from him!? All the irrational, insanity of that time left me questioning my own perceived openness to alternate realities, the depth of my love for Chris, etc, etc. So many painful, questioning nights laying in bed staring at the ceiling, hoping for a vision, a voice, anything that would signify communication from my beloved Chris… I often prayed to awaken from what I had begun to hope was a long nightmare. But the visit never came.

So it was a shock when I did get an unexpected, early morning visit back in January. I remember waking up very suddenly, my eyes literally snapping wide open, and my senses being very sharp as if the volume on my hearing had been turned up. Not more loudly but more crystal clear, the constant hum of life and my own busy mind suddenly quieted. Someone was in the room with me but I wasn’t afraid as I obviously would normally have been. I continued to lay on my side, not turning to look about but simply feeling this intense presence in the room.

No words were spoken. No voice was heard. No touch was felt. An overwhelming sense of comfort and calm filled the room and then, as suddenly as it had quieted, the hum reasserted itself and the visitor left. I don’t know if it was Chris or one of my parents. I don’t know if it was even someone I knew. I do know that I was left feeling more peaceful than I had in a long time.

I remember a couple of months after Chris died, a bitterly comical scenario played out in my imagination: Mom and Dad are hanging out in the afterlife (whatever form that may take) and in walks Chris. “What the hell are you doing here?! You’re supposed to be back there with Sandra! You promised to take care of our little girl!” cried my parents to Chris. He shuffled his feet in embarrassment, chewing his lip, and struggling to find something reasonable – or even witty – to say that would appease them. Nothing came to mind…

I hope they’ve forgiven him.
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An unbroken bond

I just returned from a one-week whirlwind visit with several dear friends. The original timing of my vacation (aside from getting away from my wet basement) was arranged to coincide with the birthdays of two of these aforementioned dear friends who just happen to have been born one day apart. A gathering of the 'clan' was set into motion and a flurry of excited e-mails flew back and forth amongst this group of friends who met [--] years ago in university. We try to all get together at least once a year and, so far, I think we've done pretty well.

We've muddled through life's adventures, lending a shoulder or a hand whenever needed. We've shared a lot of tears but even more laughter. We've been to each others' weddings (but under some unspoken pact, never as bridesmaids - must be the dresses!). Helped each other move (thank god those days are over!) and consoled each other over broken hearts (remember 'I hate men parties'?). We're as different as any group of women could be but we argue and love without question. The bond is taken for granted but not the gratitude or the responsibility it holds.

So it seemed that fate brought us all together again this time, not just for birthday festivities as planned but for other unexpected life-changing events. One of our group received thrilling news of admission to a prestigious graduate program at an Ivy League university. We shared cheers and tears of joy and a bottle of champagne was ordered from the bar! Another of our group experienced the heavy-hearted loss of an elderly relative after a lengthy illness. We shared hugs and consolation and glasses were raised in honour of a passing soul.

And so life goes. Our weekend together was in many ways typical of our long-standing friendships - the celebrations, the losses, many a glass of wine, mugging for the camera, the comfortable mundane catching up on each others' lives late into the night, and the goodbye hugs before returning to our day-to-day adventures... each taking with us the strength of our friendship, topped up for another year.

Thanks for the memories girls, and for all those yet to come!

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Close encounters of the Canuck celebrity kind

Inspired by a recent rambling conversation with a friend that included a chapter on celebrities* we had met, here's my list (to the best of my recollection):

• Jean Beliveau
• Ed Broadbent (prompting Chris to exclaim to me "I love you!")
• Kim Campbell
• Joe Clark (a regular shopper at the bookstore where I worked)
• Northrop Frye
• Herb Gray
  
• Paul Gross (many years ago during summer stock theatre)
• Rick Mercer
• Ovide Mercredi
• Mila Mulroney (also at the bookstore but an altogether different type of shopping encounter!)
• Rex Murphy
• Pierre Pettigrew
• Joe Schlesinger (another regular at the bookstore)
• René Simard (he kissed my cheek & my mother forced me to wash it after four days)
• Evan Solomon
• George Stroumboulopoulos
• Pierre Trudeau
• Michael Wilson (by telephone - but that's another story!)

* Readers will notice a preponderance of political and public broadcaster personalities - that's what you get for living in the nation's capital!
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The ghost of Christmas yet to come

Every once in awhile, you have those moments when you take a deep breath because you know you're about to go through an experience that will stop the world from spinning - if only for that singular moment - and then you exhale.

Sometimes those moments pass and, in retrospect, aren't as life-changing as you think they're going to be. Sometimes they leave you feeling quite differently than you had anticipated. Sometimes they're strange but you're not quite sure what to make of them and so you squirrel them away for future contemplation.

I had one of those moments just before New Year's when I walked through the cemetery to visit Chris' grave. I took a different route than usual and was walking towards his grave from behind when I suddenly saw that his headstone had finally been installed. My breath caught in my throat and my step wavered for a moment for I knew what I was about to see: my own name.

Despite having spent months e-mailing back and forth with the cemetery representative who very patiently indulged my micro-management of endless and minute aesthetic details like font sizes and 'white space' of the headstone that I had designed, I was about to look upon the real thing. The key facts, literally set in stone.

It’s an extraordinary and difficult concept to try and grasp: one’s own mortality. I can’t. Despite having experienced the loss of so many loved ones in recent years, I still can’t really wrap my head around the idea of my own death. I guess that’s a good sign! Obviously it will happen some day. Hopefully I’ll be ready for it – or unaware of it happening. Who knows…

And so there I was. My name cut into the shimmering black granite below Chris’. Waiting patiently, without time, beyond time…

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Boozy librarians & old card catalogues

Contrary to the long-standing prim image of those in our profession, most of the librarians I went to grad school with were a pretty boozy bunch (yours truly included) and from what I've seen and heard, that trend has continued. Of course having the university's grad students' pub conveniently located a hop, skip, and stumble down the hall from our classrooms might have had something to do with upping the stats!

In tribute to those wonderful albeit fuzzy memories of days - and nights - gone by, here's the perfect gift for the oenophile librarian or the bibliophile wine-lover... a beautiful old card catalogue recycled as a wine cabinet!

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Doggie dreams

I had an odd dream the other night.

I was in a large sunny living room looking out the window when I saw Chris walking towards the building. Beside him was a medium-sized, brown and black dog - sort of a Heinz 57.

In my dream, I knew that Chris was dead so I was elated and overjoyed to see him alive. I rushed to the door but when I opened it, only the dog was there, coming towards me.

I closed the door and went back to the window where, once again, I saw Chris and the dog. Once again, I rushed to the door but again I saw only the dog.

A third time and the same sights appeared to me. Then I woke up.

Anyone who knew Chris and I knew that we longed to adopt a dog. Chris firmly wanted to wait until we had a house and I was - and still am - torn over bringing a new animal into Sprockets' quiet, sunset years. Chris used to tease me that if someone were pushing a baby stroller and walking a dog, I would push the stroller out of the way to coo over the dog. It's an easy way to my heart!

When I read Marley & Me several years ago, I wept my way through the last chapters like a baby. All the while Chris sat rubbing my legs and handing me tissues, gently suggesting that perhaps I should put the book aside since I was taking it so hard. "I c-c-ca-can't stop." I blubbered and then the dam really burst as I closed the book.

I should have known better when I went to see the movie. Obviously I knew I would cry (you'd have to have a heart of stone not to!). But sitting there in the dark watching the heart-breaking ending unleashed a torrent of emotions and memories. All those corny Hollywood images of family-time and crazy doggie antics just made Chris' absence all the more painful. He never did get a dog of his own - our own - a dog to make us a family. And watching Owen Wilson say goodbye to Marley at the clinic just reminded me of saying goodbye to Chris at the hospital.

God I was a mess! I just couldn't stop crying - really sobbing, long after most people had pocketed their tissues and left the theatre. I think Chris' mom and grandma were a bit freaked out, not sure what was going on or what to do. Of course I finally got myself together after hiccuping out all these feelings and memories.

I've been thinking about that dream. It's easy to fill it with symbolism and meaning from beyond the veil. Chris is bringing a dog into my life, telling me to get one; reassuring me that I could do it on my own; reminding me that he's no longer alive but that he will always be looking out for me; I'm looking for something outside of myself to bring my life new meaning; I'm ready to open new doors but perhaps not ready for what I might find there; and so on and so on... The interpretations are as endlessly varied as my moods and one's perspectives. Just like life I guess.

I hope that Chris is happily playing in sunny, wide-open field with his beloved Sasha along with Pippen and Stella and Arbus and Charlie and all the puppies in heaven.

Chris' beloved Sasha

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You're sixteen, you're beautiful, and you're mine.

Belated Happy Sweet 16th Birthday to my
furry four-legged baby girl Sprockets!!

I hope I look this great at 80 !

Thank you for your crazy singular devoted love over the past 15 years - here's to the next 3... 4... 5... or more years together.

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All I want for Christmas...

...is you.
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Meeting Fríða and ghosts of Iceland past

As promised (a month ago!), here is another Iceland trip posting - my second to last. It seemed that as our trip wound into its final days we tried to pack more than ever into each one! After a week together, climbing rocky mountain roads and crawling through cloud-cover and fog, we bade farewell to our trusty Škoda Octavia at the airport drop-off before being picked up by a shuttle bus which took us to the Íshestar riding stables on the outskirts of the city.

We had booked a half-day of horseback riding to experience beautiful Icelandic horses up close and personal. They are an internationally recognized breed known for their smaller stature, stamina, friendly nature, and their unique tölt gait. To protect the health of the breed, no other horses can be imported into Iceland – although Icelandic horses can be exported and are bred around the world.

The stable staff got us each properly seated and stirrups adjusted before we set off single-file, heading out beyond the suburban edges of the city. Soon we were looking out across a rocky, scrubby landscape surrounded by hills – the weather was alternately sunny, drizzly, and breezy (pretty typical!). After about an hour we stopped in a grassy clearing to stretch our legs and let the horses graze. On our way back to the stables, we got in some cantering which was exhilarating and surprising for a beginner tour!

Back at the stables, we had lunch with the staff and then wandered out to the corral with some carrots and apples we had brought for the horses. We were immediately surrounded by dozens of velvety, inquisitive faces – supple, muscular lips quickly lapping up juicy treats and greedily pushing their noses into pockets and hands searching for more. We also met Fríða, the lovely but shy Springer Spaniel who lives at the stables – she seemed quite smitten with Mark!

To pamper our now sore buttocks and stiff legs, we spent the afternoon soaking up the decadent and soothing mineral waters of the world famous Blue Lagoon. The spa is a hidden other-worldly gem surrounded by an angry, blackened volcanic landscape. It’s a naturally occurring lagoon which has been developed into a state-of-the-art geothermal spa and power plant! The milky blue mineral-rich waters are high in sulphur and silica and are considered very therapeutic.

Before getting to the main spa building, guests walk down a craggy corridor cut through the volcanic rock. We hadn’t seen a glimpse of anything but black, jagged rock and then suddenly – this beautiful building suddenly rose up in front of us and through the windows the wondrous vision of steaming blue water. We ignored the shops and restaurants, heading directly for the check-in where we received our blue snap-on bracelets which served as our locker keys and tokens of admission – very cool system.

Boys and Girls went their separate ways here and entered the worlds of unabashed European nudity! I’m no prude but when you grow up in North America, your sensibilities are in for a shock when you hit the Blue Lagoon locker rooms! BTW the locker rooms are very nice – forget your memories of high school phys-ed, this is a world-class spa. We had been forewarned about the strict hygiene standards enforced at Icelandic pools and spas – they don’t use chemicals to purify the water and expect everyone to scrub down thoroughly before using the facilities. I wasn’t going to be the one to catch the attention of the stern-looking older woman patrolling the shower area ensuring that everyone upheld these standards.

When you step out onto the wooden deck surrounding the Lagoon, you realize how bloody chilly you are and then you step into the steaming milky blue water… mmmm, ahhhhh. The water is quite hot (40 °C / 104 °F) and it feels sooo good, like a wonderful hot bath. We wandered about in the shoulder-deep water with white silica mud slathered on our faces, peering through the sun-streaked steam to the bizarre landscape of volcanic rock and geothermal power plant towers. The waterfall feature gives a fantastic shoulder massage but make sure those shoulder straps don’t slip ladies! We heard languages from all over – I met a couple and their daughter from Paris who had been to the Saguenay region – the world really is strangely small!

After three superbly relaxing hours lolling in the spa waters we showered and hopped the shuttle bus back to Reykjavik. A surprise awaited us in town – unbeknownst to us, a huge celebration rally had been organized to welcome home the silver Olympic medal winning Icelandic handball team. (To give a sense of the importance of this event, Iceland has won a grand total of four Olympic medals – summer and winter – in its entire history. This was a BIG deal.) Tens of thousands of Icelanders had gathered downtown where a stage had been set up with giant screens. There was music and dignitaries – including the Prime Minister – the entire handball team was on stage, the crowd was euphoric, cheering and clapping. We celebrated by lining up with hundreds of Icelanders to indulge in the national favourite: pylsur and Coke!

As if the day hadn’t been full enough, we then went on the Reykjavík Haunted Walk tour which led us through the city centre telling tales of murder and ghosts and mysterious events. Coincidentally, the tour route passed directly in front of our apartment building leaving us to wonder if there was some gruesome history our landlords had omitted from the listing! The tour ended after dark, deep in the heart of the old cemetery where we saw mystifying and strange sites… you’ll have to take the tour to see for yourself.

To cap off the day we dropped by a nearby club which was one of the sites for the Reykjavík Jazz Festival taking place in the city that week. I quite enjoyed the music of Tepokinn (Teabag) – a young, up-an-coming Icelandic jazz band. The boys were very patient – they lasted a good hour or so before they couldn’t take it anymore and wanted to leave! Although I could have stayed for several more hours to enjoy the music, I was bone tired after a very full day and it was a good thing they dragged me home!
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Lest we forget

I never used to cry at Remembrance Day ceremonies.

But now, I see my parents reflected in the craggy faces of an ever-dwindling number of elderly WWII veterans who proudly pin on their medals and don their faded armed forces caps on November 11th each year.

Part of the Greatest Generation, they and their contemporaries grew up during the hardship of the Great Depression and then, as young adults, they flocked to conscription offices across the Commonwealth to join up. Their reasons were as varied as they were: to serve King and Country; to find adventure; to escape the boredom of rural farm life; to prove themselves; to see something of the world; and so on and so on.

My dad joined the Alouette Squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force and shipped off to England from historic Pier 21 in Halifax. He served in the UK and in North Africa and, yes, he found adventure along the way, he saw something of the world, he was awarded several medals, he served King and Country, and he learned to enjoy a good cigar.

My mom joined the Barbados Volunteer Force and, after a whirlwind week in New York City where they joined up with other units, set sail for England on the Queen Mary with Glen Miller and his orchestra. She served in the Royal Corps of Signals at various locations throughout England and, yes, she found adventure along the way, saw something of the world, and locked her Sergeant Major in the washroom on VE Day to go out and celebrate.

....

Soon there will be no more WWII veterans – most are in their mid to late 80’s if not older. For many years, it was difficult for me to identify with ageing seniors until I realized that – like me – they too had been young once, they had loved and laughed, danced and had fun adventures with friends. Suddenly I understood that their youth had not been lived in a stiff, black & white world – that was just the lens through which we saw them.

In turn, our children and grandchildren will probably not see us as we see ourselves until they’re grown adults with children of their own. That is the way of the world. When we’re young we’re busy finding adventure; escaping the boredom of rural life; proving ourselves; seeing something of the world; etc.

But hopefully we can take a little time to listen to stories of adventure and hardship, to look at photos of faraway cities and battlefields, to learn the difficult lessons from past discriminations and hatred, and respect those who have – and continue – to risk their lives for any number of various reasons.

Lest we forget.

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The crowning Perl and a big wax fish

It’s hard to believe that two months have passed since we were in Iceland! I’ve been lax in my post-travel updates so I’m going to try and do that this week. Just to mix it up I’m going to hop around a little chronologically so bear with me! (Credit for the IKEA & wax fish photos goes to M & D!) Come along as we travel back in time to the land of fire and ice…

Tooling around Reykjavík
After a week of non-stop travelling and sight-seeing we were kind of worn out so we decided to tool around the city and do whatever struck our fancy. And what better way than to visit the IKEA outlet?! Believe it or not this small island nation whose entire population hovers around 320,000 has a gigantic two-level store that would be the envy of… well, frankly London (pop. 350,000)!

My goal was to get an Icelandic IKEA catalogue as a souvenir. We had a quick lunch of the ubiquitous Swedish meatballs with gravy & mashed potatoes and then launched into our cross-cultural shopping expedition. Mark drolly speculated whether the product names would all be English and perhaps the Scandinavian names we were used to seeing at IKEA were just a big joke being played on North Americans!

I noticed that the kitchen appliances were consistently smaller sizes than what we’re used to (no Costco I guess!), shower stalls (instead of tub/showers) and dual-flush toilets were in every bathroom model, and there was a big emphasis on space-saving items and furniture. I ended up buying a lovely set of sheer curtains that were dirt cheap on sale and at the check-out scored my coveted catalogue!

Our next stop was the Perlan, a beautiful but interestingly utilitarian building set on a hilltop overlooking the city airport where we had flown from at the beginning of our trip. Perlan gets its name from the reflective glass dome that crowns the ring of five gigantic water tanks which hold geothermally-heated water used in the city of Reykjavík. The hilltop site features walking/cycling paths and hundreds of trees planted in ongoing efforts to restore forests to Iceland. Outside the main entrance is an exuberant jazz quartet sculpture and I couldn’t resist dancing to their beat!

Inside, the central atrium is lit from all sides by glass walls between the tanks – bizarrely there were several large palm trees huddling in a corner looking very lost and out of place. The atrium is used for receptions of all sorts, there was an art exhibit on display when we visited. We strolled around the wide observation deck that encircles the glass dome at the top of the building where the entire city spread out below us framed by stunning views of distant mountains and fjords.

Downstairs, we visited the Saga Museum which has been created inside one of the de-commissioned water tanks. Told through a series of dioramas populated by startlingly life-like mannequins, we learned about the very bloody and colourful history of the island from when it was first settled. We had a great chat about the building with the museum attendant who had visited Canada.

Tired from our busy day we decided to head home and came upon a couple of evil little hooligans throwing rocks at the birds on Lake Tjörnin near our apartment! The initial effect of my loud angry “NO – STOP!” lasted for less than a minute until they realized that I was just a silly tourist who wouldn’t give them a good verbal thrashing in Icelandic. (I did briefly entertain the idea of throwing stones at them to see how they liked the sensation.)

Our evening ended with yet another delicious meal at a nearby restaurant that had been recommended by several people. It’s housed in a rabbit-warren series of second-floor rooms in an older apartment building. At first glance it feels like you’ve arrived at a great-aunt’s home stuffed with 19^th century antiques and crocheted doilies. To add another element of other-worldliness, the maitre’d was from Montreal! After chatting in French we were seated in one of the four dining rooms – ours featured a large fish carved of wax and mounted on the wall… weird.

There was nothing weird about the food though! I splurged and ordered the scampi. Expecting the usual four or five, I was flabbergasted when presented with a heap of nine large beautifully grilled tails and salad! (Yes, I did eat them all - along with wine and chocolate ganache with crème fraiche & fresh Icelandic blueberries for dessert.)

Stay tuned for a few more updates... coming soon to a computer near you!
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Light and whispers

Now that I'm home, I've had a chance to re-read the travel journal that I kept while in Iceland and I realize that there are some big gaps in my postings. Scribbling on the fly at a public library or dark internet gaming cafe surrounded by teenage boys is not terribly conducive to the creative spirit - a girl needs a room of her own!

I'm going to add bits and pieces about our trip in the coming days and weeks as well as continue to add more photos (I've already added some to my earlier postings) so stay tuned! You can click on any of the photos to see a larger version.

Ísafjörður
One of the most beautiful man-made places we visited was the church in Ísafjörður. It was built in 1995 to replace a much older one on the same site that had burned down. It's a very beautiful modern structure somewhat like an origami cubist version of the iconic Sydney Opera House. The church in Ísafjörður has cascading levels of long narrow windows rising above each building section and one wall is punctuated with small openings that reminded me a lot of the windows in Le Corbusier's church at Ronchamp. (There are almost no stained glass windows in Icelandic churches - probably mostly because of the long dark winters.) The interior is typically spare and light Scandinavian in decor with slate tile floors, white walls, and and a soaring blue ceiling, rows of simple chairs instead of pews, and a magnificent organ.

But it's the altarpiece that takes your breath away - a soaring flock of small clay birds seemingly frozen in mid-flight, so life-like despite their dark orange colour. The birds were each individually created by the people of Ísafjörður under the supervision of artist Ólöf Nordal - it is the embodiment of a true community effort but it's effect as a whole is so inspiring! I am no church-goer but one cannot but feel renewed and inspired in such a beautiful, peaceful place. I lit a single candle for Chris and spent a few quiet moments lost in prayer.

Later that day after we returned from our trip to the island of Vigur, we - of course - popped by the library. We had a great chat with the friendly library staff and she told us about the collection and the building's history. The beautifully restored three-story building used to be the regional hospital. The library is on the main floor, in an inter-connected series of sunny rooms with high ceilings. The regional archives, photography museum, and cultural centre are also in the same building.

"Whispers in the Library"

Just for fun, here is one of the panorama shots I stitched together (click on photo for a larger version). This is the Northwest side of Ísafjörður and the soaring fjord cliffs behind, taken from the harbour.

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Knee bone connected to the thigh bone...

So I found the computer/printer/DSL and managed to set it up all by my lonesome (this was always Chris' area of expertise)... everything works and I don't have any extra cables left over so I guess I did it right!

The move went as well as could be expected after arriving home from Iceland 12 hours earlier + a 4-hour time difference + very little sleep thanks to a whiney, lonely cat who shall remain nameless. BTW I don't recommend this type of intense insanity.

My success with the computer was somewhat undercut by the TV/DVD/VCR (yes I still have one)/cable hook-up. I even took a photo of the wiring connections before I packed everything up in the old apt! Despite three repeated hook-ups and complete rip-outs still nothing but crackling snow, which is charming on a crisp February morning but not so much after the departure of the cable guy. I gave up and called for help, turns out cable guy # 1 didn't actually connect the cable in the basement to anything! Thank you cable guy # 2.

And then there was the stereo (cue choir of angels). This was usually the first thing Chris set up, having always bought a special "moving in to a new place" CD to christian the event, so I was somewhat nervous about figuring out how to set up a "real" stereo system. Aside from the speaker wires being too short for where I want to put them, all is working so far. Pat on the back for me (and the reasonably explicit instructions and pictures in the manuals!).

But of course every move culminates in the unpacking of The Book Collection (only 11 boxes this time). Because I'm a book/library geek and into design porn (no, not porn design) I decided that when I unpacked my books I would try the sort by colour method that's so trendy on the 'net these days. It does however bring back haunting memories of post-BA minimum wage slavery at SmithBooks when I was often asked for some mysterious book that could only be remembered by its jacket cover colour.

Pictured below is the result of my ridiculously time-wasting little project (collection policy: coloured jacket fiction only, organized in the traditional visible spectrum colour range, many black & yellowing jackets left out simply for the sake of artistic vision, small selection of black covers serve as book-ends to frame the colours, single white cover chosen for its ironic title). Feel free to click on the pic below for full-size version to critique and compare (yes these are all my own books and no I haven't read them all... yet). Now this is just temporary and for fun, I'm waaay too anal to leave them like this!

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Sígur Ros and ghosts at the foss

The whirlwind is beginning to wind down - hard to believe that we will be heading home to London tomorrow. We've had more adventures since my last post and miraculously, the weather although overcast (as is common) has been co-operative and we've managed not to get drenched except while standing near foss (waterfalls). The food continues to be delicious and my pants continue to get tighter!

We had another great road trip out to the "Golden Circle" consisting of Þingvellir (gotta love language-specific keyboards!), Geysir, and Gullfoss. Þingvellar is not only the birthplace of the oldest democratic parliament in the world - 1000 year anniversary was held in 1930 - but it is also the place where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates are tearing apart at the rate of 2cm per year. Amazing geography/topography as well as a beautiful vista - reminded me of Northern Ontario, somewhat Group of Sevenish. When you think of how old all this history is and that people congregated here over a THOUSAND years ago to elect representatives...

We drove on to Geysir - after which all geysers are named - and met Icelandic capitalism face-to-face. This was probably the most commercial site we have visited so far but compared to North America it was very low-key and tasteful! We bought some souvenirs while the rain poured and when it let up we went out to watch Strokkur spout. Geysir is dormant but the smaller Strokkur is still impressive to watch simmer and blow.

The grand finale of our day - and what felt like a grand finale before our trip winds down - was our visit to Gullfoss, Iceland's best known and possibly most impressive foss. It is very wide and roars as it tumbles over two sets of rocky outcropping. Ridiculously, there is a narrow well-traversed path along side the foss with only a low rope dividing the no-go zones from the path. We walked right up onto the rocky outcropping over the falls - slippery, wet, NO BARRIERS - stunning views, soaked with mist, rainbow!! Incredible experience - all FREE!

But the real gift was awaiting me on the far side of the falls where David pointed out a single white swan resting on the rocky shoreline. Suddenly all the overwhelming emotions of this trip came pouring out and I stood there sobbing in the thunder and mist of this beautiful wild place, missing Chris more than I had at any other point during this trip. He brought us to this place and showed us things that we would never otherwise have seen or thought of visiting. I watched that swan resting by the water and told Chris how much I loved him and thanked him for giving us this singular breath-taking moment.

Our trip home was a quiet one - I think we were all lost in our own thoughts and memories and emotions. Dinner was another decadent gourmet feast at a hidden gem in the resort area of Laugarvatn: reindeer pate (tastes like Christmas according to Mark!), smoked trout, fresh pan-fried trout, grilled lamb, and of course decadent chocolate mousse for dessert!

Oh I forgot to mention - at the outset of our day we dropped by the Sundlaugin studio where Sígur Ros recorded their first four albums and David played the piano there!!!!

A few sight-seeing spots to still hit and some shopping before tomorrow´s departure. :-(

Bless bless (bye bye)! See you soon.
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Becoming the wind and the rain and the sea

Where to begin!? Apologies to those devoted readers who've been waiting for an update on our trip around Iceland. It´s been an incredible few days since I last posted to the blog.

We're now in Reykjavík, staying at a huge apartment overlooking the "floating" city hall and downtown lake populated by ducks, seagulls, and a pair of swans!! The weather has been alternately windy, rainy, sunny, cold, damp, and refreshing - sometimes all in one hour. We're eating really well and somehow not spending a bloody fortune (tonight we've pledged to try puffin).

When last I wrote, we were headed to the Látrabjarg bird sanctuary where hundreds of thousands of sea birds nest during the spring and summer - including one of the largest puffin colonies in the world. It's also where we decided to scatter Chris' ashes. The place is ridiculously inaccessible - mountainous hairpin turn gravel roads cut into the sides of steep cliffs. But the reward once you get there is truly awe-inspiring (a word I've gotten used to using every day)!

We climbed to the second-highest peak, seeing puffins, guillemots, seagulls, and other birds all along the way. We stopped at a grassy spot with a stunning view out to sea and decided that this was a place where Chris would be free to become the wind and the rain and the sea. The wind whipped up from below the cliff edge and carried his ashes up into the cloud-torn sky where they disappeared. Ironically he probably might not have been able to get up to that place, even with a transplant, and so it was even more significant that he become part of the wild freedom of that beautiful place.

Later that day we took the Baldur Ferry to the little town of Stykkishólmur where we stayed the night at Hótel Breiðafjörður. Arriving too late to eat dinner at any of the restaurants in town I had a pylsur at the local gas station grill - yummmy!

Next day we headed for Snæfellsjökull, pushing our sturdy Skoda Octavia even further than we already had. Up, up, up further and further into the never-ending switch-back turns of the mountain gravel road we finally ended up in clouds, our windows misting with drizzle. The landscape up there was truly lunar, nothing visible beyond about 50ft and only lava rock and acid-green lava moss. Earlier visitors had left many Inukshuk-like rock piles and they sprouted around us like the elves that are reputed to live all around us. The road down to Hellnar was washed out so we had to turn around and drive all the way back!!

The drive to Reykjavík was positively boring in comparison and I actually napped along the way. We arrived to a Happy Anniversary banner and chilled champagne for David & Mark's 4th wedding anniversary (planned weeks ahead with my accomplices at the guesthouse). We lit up the disco ball on our living room ceiling and kicked back thinking that if we left the next day, we would already have had an incredible trip.

Our first full day in Reykjavík coincided with the city marathon AND the annual culture night Menningarnótt which is basically a big city-wide street party celebrating music, painting, theatre, etc. Galleries have open houses, mimes do performance art, painters show kids their techniques, shops offer sidewalk sales, etc, etc, etc. It´s a free-for-all that has something for everyone!

Art installation of front-load washing machines all "vomiting" water down the middle of the street! Just one of the dizzying array of things going on for Culture Night.

Late that night we grabbed some more delicious Icelandic baked goodies and headed down to the harbour along with thousands of other people for the big fireworks - what a show! We just happened to sit down on a little hill and the fireworks were literally set off right in front of us! The sky was clear as a bell but being Iceland it was barely dark even though it was 11pm. We cheered and clapped along with everyone else and afterwards, families and friends wandered along the harbourfront. To celebrate, we popped into one of the many hopping bars along the busy shopping strip and bought beers which we simply walked out onto the street while drinking - when in Rome! The streets were packed with families and merry-makers, laughing and strolling and drinking. What a great energy in the air!

Yesterday we drove along the south-west coast through Selfoss where we visited Bobby Fisher´s grave at a tiny church with a beautiful interior. Then it was on to Hella where we ate our picnic lunch overlooking a river before visiting a craft shop filled with handknit sweaters, ceramics, and hand-carved wooden bowls. We stopped for awhile at Skógafoss where we walked up to the pool at the base of this thundering waterfall - Iceland's highest. We got soaked in the spray and loved it! There is a wonderful museum there as well highlighting Icelandic life up until the 20th century including buildings around the museum grounds that you can walk into and see how people lived as far back as the early settlers in turf/sod houses.

Unbelievably, the day just kept getting better and better despite the driving rain. We decided to take the Lonely Planet suggestion to walk on Sólheimajökull glacier nearby and took the gravel road definitely less travelled by car, walked the last kilometer or so before climbing a rock pile and there lay a glacier before our eyes... It's so hard to put into words that experience - and everything that being there represents - how is this possible, why is it allowed!? We walked across the silt and gravel streams that pour out of the base of the glacier and then actually stepped onto it. There was not a single other person or man-made object as far as the eye could see, we were the only ones there... incredible.

We drove onwards towards the town of Vík and turned off down a country road that led us to a breath-taking view of a long curving black volcano sand beach where the icy cold waves crashed endlessly. Behind us rose a long line of basalt stone columns resembling a huge formidable cathedral organ. Above in the cliffs, hundreds of birds circled - including puffins. In the misty sunlight at the far end of the black beach stood the huge rock formation of Dyrhólaey glowing as if lit from the inside. It reminded me of our famous Percé Rock in the Gaspé region. The entire scene was almost too much to take in.

We left the crashing waves and birds to their ageless cycles to find a delicious dinner of tender marinated lamb in a tiny, bustling pub called Halldórskaffi. The drive back to Reyjavik was a late one but rewarded with a perfect crescent moon sliding out from behind the clouds.

We´ve seen so many incredible things and this snippet doesn´t nearly do it justice but I will continue to scribble and will elaborate when I return home.

Until next time...
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Icelandic poppies and fresh bread

Greetings from Ísafjörður!

We had a good flight punctuated by several notable things: feather pillows and large fleece blankets for everyone; a yummy, hot dinner (served at the very continental hour of 10:30pm!); and a dizzying array of films, videos, music, and Icelandic travel info at our touch-screen fingertips. The sum total of sleep between the three of us was perhaps 4-5 hours!

We arrived bleary-eyed at 6:30am to a grey drizzly Keflavík airport outside of Reykjavík and took a quick shuttle into the city where we dropped off our bags and wandered about for several hours. Not much was open but we did walk through beautiful downtown gardens and pop into city hall where we saw a cool scale model of the entire island - those mountains we'll be driving through are really freakin' high!! Our sleep-deprived bodies got a charge from croissants and coffee before we headed to the tiny bustling city airport for our flight up north.

The clouds cleared for our decent and the view was SPECTACULAR!! Sheer mountains dropped into water that sparkled in the afternoon sunlight and the little town of Ísafjörður is wrapped around a peninsula in the deep finger of the fjord. The shuttle driver spoke no English but we got to our guesthouse which is delightful - six thumbs up from the three of us!

We wandered around for several hours - mouths agape and cameras snapping madly at the natural vista and charming town around us. Dinner at Tjöruhúsið in the Ísafjörður Maritime Museum was incredibly fresh fish, served in the pan at the table. Cold beer is always good and Viking brand rounded out our meal. We stopped into the tourist office and spoke with Kirsten who was very nice.

I slept in this morning but made up for it asap before we went out walking some more around town, taking yet more amazing picture. There are tons of cute, friendly cats wandering around who've all been getting chin scratches and photo-shoots. The architecture is really interesting - lots of mid-century modern! For a laugh - and because I love them - we popped into the local hardware store. Holy nice fixtures batman! Gorgeous modern stuff that would be special orders at Home Depot are fully stocked in a town of 3500! And of course everyone is blond and beautiful - even the crusty old guys down on the docks!

"Spiral Kitty"

We had an amazing afternoon boat trip out to Vigur island where we saw puffins, arctic tern, seals, and eider ducks. The family that owns the island run an eiderdown "farm" where they harvest eiderdown from the nests to make eiderdown duvets.

Having a Georgia O'Keeffe moment at Vigur Island...

It's hard to put into words how beautiful it is here. The air is cool and fresh. The sea and sky are ever-changing lifeforms. There are an astounding number and range of flowers everywhere: yellow and orange Icelandic poppies; heavenly scented wild roses; lush purple lupins; etc. The bread and baked goods are to die for! The smell... omg.

So much to describe! How to put these experiences into words? I will have to flesh out these on-the-fly postings once I get home.

Tomorrow, we're off to Látrabjarg in our rental car - cross your fingers and wish us luck!

A bientôt!
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