A Sundial's Saga

Gym Intimidation

2012-01-27T21:05:00.011-05:00

Have you ever taken a look at a piece of gym equipment and been like, "Nope, not going near that." or "What the heck do you do with that?" Well, I guess I'm slowly getting close to getting rid of those phrases from my life.

This week, my Y conditioning class for women made us learn to use the 2 pieces of gym equipment that have totally intimidated me. Mainly because I didn't know what they heck they were.

The first, is pictured above. That's the chin up assisted machine. When I was told we'd be doing chin ups, I was like, "oh no, I couldn't even do a reverse push up last week." And this machine is high off the ground, and scary.

It works like a set of balance scales. If you select enough bar weights to weigh as much as you, you won't be able to go anywhere. If you select no weights, then you need to life your whole weight. So if you weight 165lbs and you want to life 50lbs, you set the bars to 115lbs.

Then you climb up to the second set of foot pads, grab the upper bar (waay up above), and then step onto the top platform. The order you do this is very important. If you're not holding the bars with your hands when you step on the top platform, then as soon as your weight shifts to the platform, it will fall - possibly all the way to the ground.

The trainer was careful to tell us that if something went wrong and you end up standing on the platform at ground level, and you were unable to reach the hand bars (many feet above the ground), that you cannot simply step off. As soon as some of your weight shifts off, the platform will shoot up, taking your other leg, or your teeth with it. So if you end up at the bottom, you need to use the lower handles to 'climb' back to the top.

That's a lot to think about.

I was so nervous doing this. I made everyone else go first. The trainer was great and did all the instructions each time, and managed the weight bars. When it was my turn, I was scared she'd put on too much weight(by picking a light bar, oddly enough), and I'd shoot to the bottom and dislocate my arms. I was certain it would happen.

I started at 30lbs and it was way easy. You control everything with your arms, you force yourself and the platform up and down by pulling and pushing. I pulled and up and asked for more weight. It was really neat.

Stepping down is tricky too. You need to hold the bar and slowly step backwards and off the top platform onto the middle ones. But I did it, and it was fun, and I'll probably do it again on my own.

The next machine was even scarier. It was this piece called the "Radiat" which it has many different attachments and things you can do. I've always stayed away from it.

The trainer slide the bench away, and attached a curved metal bar to the pulley at the top of the left side, probably 6 feet off the ground. Then she took an aerobic step and placed it at a 90 degree angle, facing the left pulley.

The task, to do rowing motions while sitting on the step on the ground. The tricky part, getting the metal bar down low enough to make this happen. Of course, she made it look effortless. She stood up, put the weight bars (or plate weights) at 65lbs, grips the metal bar with both hands, and in one swift (with not hands) sat on her bum on the step. Then she placed her feet into a locked position at the base of the machine.

I could not replicate that. I stood, gripped the metal bar and started to pull. Nothing happened because I cannot move 65lbs with my arms. I was told that you don't do it with your arms, you do it with your whole body. You need to drop your bum, and shift your weight down using your whole body. Yeah, I totally could not do that. The trainer helped and put some force behind the metal bar for me. Then, when I got down, I was tons of pain.

She's all about pushing ourselves. She hates it when people attempt to do lots of reps and small weights. Fine. But I could barely do 3 reps at 65lbs.

You had to lean back as if you were in a recliner, and then keep your back and your body perfectly still, lock you feet in, and then just extend and bend your arms. If you "rocked" your whole body forward that was incorrect and wouldn't work the right muscles. Honestly, all it felt like was that the weights were heavy, my bum was heavy, and my poor arms were becoming spaghetti getting trapped because the top.

I needed less weight, and that's when I discovered the most trickiest part - getting back up. You can't let go of the metal bar and use one hand to help you up. You have to go from on your bum to on your feet - no knees, no wrists, no bending, no turning. My arms hurt, I wanted up, but couldn't figure it out. The trainer said, "Just let the pulley pull you up, shift your weight again." Nope, didn't work. Too unbalanced. Finally, she put one hand on the metal bar and one hand on me, and I got up.

I repeated the process at 45lbs. The way down was easier, I just did a squat and then brought my feet forward. The way back up was still tough, but I only needed the trainer to put one hand on the pulley. I'm not sure I'd rush out to redo this one again. I think the sitting near the floor, and almost 6 feet away from the top of the pulley was the worst part. I would do it again if I could sit on a bench, like in here:

Both of those exercises were supposedly for back, though I only felt them in my arms. Next we did some chest stuff. First, we went over to the chest press. I had previously struggled to use this machine on 10lbs (seriously! pain!) and when I saw the trainer set the default weight at 30lbs I cringed a little. I didn't want to be the wuss again.

Turns out, I might have been doing somethings wrong on the machine. There's a yellow bit by the elbow that you can rotate forward or backward, and she said to always more it forward. The hand grips need to always be at your armpits or lower. And you need to rotate your fists around the hand grips so that the back of your hands are facing away from you, not towards you. 30lbs was tough, but I did it ok.

Next up, bench work with free weights. We were give 2, 25lb weights and shown how to do a chest press with them. Laying on your back, you bend your elbows and take your fists (with the weights) to your shoulders. Make the back of your hands face down, the underside of your forearm face up. Your arms should be fairly level with your body. Then you lift up and innerward and somewhat towards your toes (3 dimensions!) so that you bring the weights together, about an arm's reach above your mid-chest. Don't lift them above your head, keep 'em above your chest.

Then we were taught flys, which are somewhat similar. Basically, you start laying down with your arms straight (but not locked) and facing out and level with the ground. Then you keep your arms straight and lift up and in, to end with the arms an arm's length above your chest. Supposedly flys are harder, so the trainer made us switch to 20lbs. I think she said the chest presses work your lower chest and flys work your upper chest, which is better for women because that supports the bust.

The last formal thing we learned was bench rows. I'm not sure if that's the proper name. It was another back (rather than chest) exercise. You placed a left knee and left palm on the bench, then placed your right foot about 2 feet away from the bench. You hold a 25lb weight in your right hand down by the floor with your straight right arm. Your back should be level with the bench. Then you simply keep everything still but your arm, and you bend at the elbow bringing the weight up and in.

Simple right? Well, I couldn't keep my back straight for the deadlift last week - actually I couldn't figure out how to straighten my back in the first place. And I got a repeat of that. I had no body sense, I couldn't tell if I was hunched over or curved or what.

I got down and tried and asked. I was reassured, yup I was fine. But rotate your shoulder. Uh? I point my elbow out. No, rotate your shoulder. Turns out, my right shoulder was 'dropped' meaning it was closer to the ground than my left. When I tried to fix it, I just bent it towards my ear, which was still the wrong dimension. The trainer came over and told me just to turn at the waist a little, and I did and that worked. Wow, body movements are complicated!

I also have no body sense when it comes to push ups. We ended the session with a few informal tips on things. The trainer did the run down on push ups, explaining that against the wall is the easiest, with your feet on the ground and your upper body on a low bench is slightly harder, then the standard ones, and then "advanced" push ups are with your feet on a bench and your upper body on the ground.

I wanted to try some with my upper body based on a bench, but I couldn't fit out how to hold my entire body straight. "You need to tuck your bum in more, your bent at the waist." I had no idea I was. That's why I don't do yoga in groups, what feels right to me probably looks nothing like the poses I'm trying to accomplish. And that's probably why it took so long for me to learn how to float in water, I have no clue what a straightened body is supposed to feel like. In all honesty, it feels unnatural and terrible. I know I have horrible posture, I'm pretty sure my back is never straight, and my head is usually a few inches ahead of my spine.

So, I know this class is definitely helping. Each week, I'm learning a ton, even when we're using machines I've used before. However, given that the workout was supposed to be back and chest, it's my armpits that hate me today. Even cutting up a kiwi in kitchen was kinda painful tonight. Maybe I'll feel more tomorrow.

Because it's Winter

2012-01-27T20:47:00.003-05:00

I'm pretty anti-social lately. I haven't seen my friends in weeks. I don't plan to see them for weeks. Even though they live 10 minutes away on a bus.

Why?

Well, it's not the fact that I'm teaching a university course and planning my lectures is taking up all my time. It's not the fact that I'm planning a wedding and putting in TONS of screen time plotting strategizing this "party." It's not because I'm also trying to find a job because I get married so I'm spending lots of time searching (literally) dozens of job banks and submitting CVs, resumes, and teaching dossiers. It's not because before I get a job I need to finish my PhD thesis, so I spend over 10 hours analyzing data this week that still didn't make any sense. It's not because I'm surrounded by death and currently acting like a self-pitying emo kid. Ok, maybe all that stuff is sorta contributing to it.

But the real reason is becacuse it's winter. And not the nice kind of winter, with fluffy, powdery snow, or the sticky snowman snow. This winter has been light on the snow, but heavy on the freezing rain.

It feels like we get a "Freezing Rain Warning" every 3 days. And it's a good thing that my sister bought me those metal spikes for me boots 3 years ago. I've been using them heavily since receiving them - I swear they are in my top 5 of my favorite recent consumer products to have entered my life (others include my kobo, fitbit, and roomba).

While I've worn those ice spikes on my boots for a few winters, I don't usually NEED them all the time. Most of the time I have been using them not on ice, but on slick, packed snow, or on slush, or even in powdery snow.

Not this year. I swear the sidewalks on the way to my bus stop have been as crazy slick as a curling rink. Not a hockey rink, at least that's flat, predictable ice. Sidewalk ice is uneven and slops and has been ruts. Even if you place your food down solid, the ground isn't level, so you can still slip. Luckily, the ice spikes fix that and everything is fine.

But having my world be a ball of ice is no fun. And it makes me want to just curl up and want Netflix and stay home. So that's what I've been doing.

Today we had a huge ice/snow hell storm. I never stay home on Fridays, but here I am. I didn't go to campus today, that it just an irritation I don't need, especially since elementary and secondary schools were being cancelled. Then around 1pm, I lost power in my building. Lobby parties are actually pretty interesting, and I liked the brief moment of community that existed with me and my neighbours. We eventually got our power back which was happy-happy, but the storm had gotten so bad that going to my fiance's place for regular Friday night dinner was a pretty reckless idea.

So I just read an entire book on my kobo and wrote this post for you to read. Because it's winter.

Emo

2012-01-23T22:12:00.005-05:00

I understand there must always be an end.
I know that every attachment must be broken.
I can accept that.
By why does it have to hit all at once?
First, my political leader, my public-life hero.
Then, my grandfather, my loving, caring guardian.
Next, my professional role model, my mentor's mentor.
Well, he's not gone yet, but things are shakey.
And now, my dog.
Yes girl, you've been going a long time. And yes girl, I didn't want you when they brought you around in September 2000.
But that was because you were replacing my other dog Frankie 1991-1999. Who ironically was diagnosed with cancer on September 23rd.
It's January 23rd. I fucking hate the 23rd.
Knowing that you've been on borrowed time doesn't make it any easier.
I can accept that it's time for you to go.
But damn I'm going to miss you.
Damn it, I hate losing people - it leads to missing people.
So I know that every end must come.
But seriously, I don't want to be alone.

And here's some Foo Fighters for my soul. And yes, I made my Sim avatar an emo-goth just for this post. The compilation of death around me brought me to it. And yes that is a skeleton teddy-bear. I wish I had a real one to cuddle.

Baha'i Missionaries

2012-01-22T15:16:00.007-05:00

So I'm sitting on my butt, watching the following video like 12 times in a row:

I'm trying to figure out if the Pug is actually doing anything to contribute to the group. And then there's a knock on my door. No one usually knocks on my door ever. I figure maybe the constant dog barking was bugging a neighbour, but I approach the door cautiously. There's been crazy shit happening when innocent and guilible people open doors. There was that cause of that girl who opened her door at 1am and welcomed a murderer in.

I look through a keyhole. Someone is there, they are short, and they have their head turned. I can't tell who it is.

I open the door a crack. Two women are standing there - one slightly taller than me and perhaps Mediterranean or Middle Eastern and in her 40s, and one is shorter and rounder and is black. She talks with a slight accent, perhaps Haitian.

The taller, olive skinned lady says, "Hi, we just moved into the neighbourhood and wanted to introduce ourselves." and reaches out her hand. I'm delighted. I've wanted to do that with neighbours since forever. Now that I think about it, the black lady is familiar, maybe I saw her in the elevator. When I ask where they live, she says something about "across from the building." That had me stumped. My building is surrounded by park land.

They told me their names but I can't remember them. The olive skinned lady told me about this community gathering she is trying to organize to help build community. They want to have a thing tonight at 5pm.

And then they mention that they are from the Baha'i community.

I'm currently on a pretty anti-religious bend. Even Unitarianism and me are not getting along. But I'm still a humanist. And I'm still all for seeing the beauty in each person, and respecting diversity, and respecting liberal, progressive forms of faith - which a lot of Baha'i falls into. (But I'm also aware of some other elements of Baha'i that really don't impress me - like homophobia and censorship).

But I mean, I still have a pretty interfaith magnet on my fridge, and I still believe that freedom of religion is important and protecting other peoples' right to religion is important (as long as their religion does not hurt or infringe upon others). I might not be interested in religion for me, but I will defend the right of having religion and choosing your own religion.

So as much as I'm interested in learning about various religions (from a scholarly rather than devotional perspective), I have no intention of committing or obligating myself to a religious community.

Anyway, they gave me the big speech and startle to rattle on about their Baha'i stuff in my hallway. I'm trying to monitor my facial expressions like a sociopath, because I can feel my mouth straighten and my brow furrow. I'm trying to be polite.

The dark skinned lady does almost all the talking. When she asks what I do and I say I'm a PhD student she does all kinds of flattering and stuff and then uses my interest in kids to pitch me more elements of what they're "selling."

And now they're going into the high pressure sales picture amount monthly meetings, and the children's school, and lots of other stuff. I want to learn more - but for the sake of knowlege. Not because I want to join. So I ask where it's happening (in the park across the street with the snow?)

Turns out, there's a community center by the social housing projects, and that will be the location of the children play group. (In which they will learn universal morales like sharing colors and learning together and diversity and community. They will also learn to sing songs and say prayers that are Baha'i prayers.)

I asked if the thing tonight was at the community center. It's at the Olive skinned ladies' home, and they describe the location in more detail. It's pretty much at my bus stop.

"Well, I know since you're a PhD student, you must be very busy," she said. "Oh, definitely. I'm trying to graduate, and plan a wedding -" "oh! a wedding!" " - and I'm teaching a course right now, and I'm trying to find a job. So, yes, very busy." And I restated that I was unavailable to attend the meeting tonight, and wished them goodluck.

They suggested letting me know when the next one would be, but I didn't give them my phone number or email, so I guess they'll come knock on my door when it's coming up?

Christ Buddha Turkmenstein. That's a first. I've been home when Mormons and Jehovah Witnesses arrive, and I've gotten crazy evangelical pamphlet's before (in my door and on the street). I've had Hare Krisnah's give me books at rock concerts. I've had Muslims from the university's MSA stopped me in hallways constantly to tell me about Allah, or to participate in an MSA event or pose for a photo wearing a hijab. I've had Catholic relatives and peers attempt to talk me into rejoining the church, and others peers have attempted to talk me into other churches. I've had Unitarians attempt to nominate me for all their committees and to get me more wrapped in than I could imagine. And I've had Jews look at me with a twinkle in their eye, hoping that I'd convert or at least alter my lifestyle.

But I've never been approached by Baha'i missionaries. And now I have.

I shoulda told them that I've visited the Baha'i gardens in Haifa, Israel. But then they'd think I was like a super Baha'i. Maybe it's good that I didn't.

Gym Log

2012-01-20T08:50:00.014-05:00

A week ago, I decided I wanted to take a class at the YMCA called "In Shape" for women. The program guide described it at a class which uses cardio exercises and weight machines to help condition bodies, tone muscles and improve flexibility.

When I got there last week and asked where it was, I was told that it was just in the weight room, I could go warm up on the cardio machines. So it's right in the middle of everyone. And it's on a Thursday night, when the cardio/weight room is packed. Interesting.

I've seen posters up for "Group Orientation to the Weight Room" and while I thought I could probably learn a thing or two, and while I know I'm unsure about a few things, I didn't sign up for weight room orientation because I've been going to the gym for over a year and I figured it would be boring.

Good thing, because the "In Shape" class consists largely of introducing the equipment in the weight room. It's not so much a "class" but instead it's more like a "tutorial." Unlike a 30 minute orientation, it's 8, 1-hour sessions that each focus on a specific set of muscles, so when the machines are introduced, it's a lot more detailed.

There were only 5 women last week (this week there were 4). We sat around a table and introduced ourselves, and then we warmed up on the cardio machines. The trainer told me to try out the rowing machine. I've tried it before I couldn't get it. So she explained that I had to go legs, arms, arms, legs. Stretch out your legs, pull back your arms, release you arms, rebend your legs, repeat. If you mess up the order, you end up banging your arms on your knees or tangling the rowing chord. Turns out, it's really easy. It was kinda boring. But boy, I felt it the next day.

After the warm-up, we were told the first week was all about legs. She made it clear that when she said to "push yourself" that you needed to do it. She was adamantly against doing many reps on a low weight, and instead really argued for as high as you can go with fewer reps. She said that most girls won't do that because they don't want to bulk up, but we can't bulk up because we do not have enough testosterone and female body builders are taking things like testosterone and human growth hormone and have mustaches and big foreheads.

Feeling self-conscious over my big forehead, (and looking at the huge hulky biceps of one lady in the class), I asked about the normative range of testosterone levels in women and the possibility that some women just might have elevated levels - like women with polycystic ovarian syndrome. Yup, nope, we were still gonna go as hard as possible on the machines. My next question would have been to ask where the fine line between pushing ourselves and injury was, but it never got asked.

The core of the class was around 5 resistance machines. I don't know the proper names, but there was the "leg press" in which you sit in a chair that moves up and down a ramp, and you push your feet on a stationary wall-surface, and you push off the wall. I was happy to learn about this one, because I had tried it on my own before and couldn't figure it out. The instructor wanted us to start with 100lbs. She explained that your toes should be above your knees and you knees should be at a 90 degree angle at the start and you should straighten your legs but not lock them.

Other women did it, no problem. I sat down, and my knees were in my face, not at 90 degrees. I tried to adjust the seat, but grabbed the wrong lever so when I pushed back to adjust the seat it the weight tried to lift. 100lbs was too much and I couldn't do it, so I just went no where. After the trainer's help, I figured it out, and could do it on 60lbs.

There were two "leg curl" machines that were kinda the opposites of each other. One you sit in and push a bar under the calf down and bend your knees. The instructor recommended 80lbs but I was ok at 60bs. The other, you push a bar on your shins up and unbend your legs. That one frigging hurt. Both were supposed to work your upper legs and thighs, but the latter one just worked my knees. The front of my knees were in tons of pain after 4 reps.

The trainer said, "You want to push yourself so that the 10th rep is really exhausting," but I could not keep going after 5 reps on 50lbs (others were doing 80bs). I lowered the weight and lowered it again. At 30lbs it still hurt. We adjusted the bar so it wasn't on my shins, it was on my ankles, and it still hurt. So, I was told that because my knees are weird, I shouldn't use that machine ever again. Ok deal.

The last two machines were the "squeeze your thighs closed" and "squeeze your thighs open" machines. I use 'em all the time and could actually do the weight suggested by the instructor, so that was fine.

Then, we did other exercises. We stood around and were instructed how to properly do a squat (and a sumo squat, and a jump squat), and lunges. The hardest part is to not let your knees go infront of your toes. That was really hard for me. Then we held heavy balls and did hamstring curls (far too many, my legs hated me the next day).

And that was the first week. I went back on Monday and redid everything on my own and it was great. Except the lunges, I felt weird standing in the gym doing those by myself.

So last night was the second week. After some warm up time on the upright bikes, the trainer set up a circuit of free weight activities. Station #1: holding 2 10 pound weights and walking across the room doing 12 lunges. Station #2: 12 deadlifts a 15lb padded bar. (Deadlifting is keeping your legs straight, your arms straight (but dangling), your back straight, and just bend at the hip). Station #3: putting a metal bar with 20lb weights on behind your head and across your shoulders and do 12 squats. Station #4: 12 "side squats" "side lunges" or what the cartoon do before the races on Original Nintendo Power Pad Racing while holding a 15lb weight mid-chest.

We were told to do the entire circuit 3 times. The first circuit was totally easy. I mean, I still feel like my knees don't like getting low enough for a full lunge, but that's ok. The "side squats" are super easy, I do 'em all the time and never knew they were called anything. The friggin 20lb metal bar on the back of my neck wasn't too heavy, but it hurt my neck. I wanted to swap it for the 15lb padded bar, which was way too easy to deadlift.

The second time around I could feel my thighs working a lot harder. The trainer brought in a metal bar with 30lbs for the deadlift. Ouch, that hurt my back. She told me I wasn't keep my back straight, I kept curling it. I was honest and said I don't know how to only bend at the hips and not the back. She tried to help and would make a buzzing noise each time I bent. There was a lot of buzzing. She said to tighten my abs to help. That worked, but put all the work in the abs and not the hamstrings. And it still hurt my back.

The third time around, I was getting worn, but in a good way. The other women were all red-faced. Lunges were either easier, or I was sloppier. I used the 20lb bar for my deadlifts and that was good, and then I did used it with the squats (which seriously bugged my neck and I've had a headache ever since).

And then we moved onto "back" stuff. Turns out the two back machines were the ones I use all the time - the Low Row and the Vertical Traction. I was using the Vertical Traction properly, and the amount of weight she put on it was easy for me (40lbs). On the Low Row, I was letting my hands go too far forward and I wasn't keeping my elbows in tight enough, and I wasn't sitting up straight enough. I typically only use 20lbs on it and do 3 sets of 10 reps. She started us at 40lbs but only wanted 12 reps. Some women put it up to 50lbs because it was too easy. I discretely put it down to 30lb.

There's an area at the front of the weight room with the big weights and the benches and the big, musclely guys. Muscley gym addicts don't intimidate me, but I've still stayed away from there. I don't need any of that equipment. One of the women joked about learning that, so the trainer took us over there and asked to borrow the main weight thingy for a few minutes. She took all the weights off it, slid the bench away, and lowered the bar to about mid-thigh height. Then she laid on the floor with her shoulders under the bar and explained we were going to do "reverse push ups." You could grab the bar with an overarm or an underarm, it didn't matter. You bent your knees and pulled your bum up until you were straight like a plank. Then you had to pull your chest up to the bar.

Well, I was brave enough to go first. I could get my bum up. But overarm or underarm, there was no way my chest was getting anywhere near that bar. I couldn't. I could have pulled and yearned all I wanted, I can't lift myself. All the other women that followed me did it. Ah, well.

By the time that was over, it was 8pm. There was one more huge thingy at the back of gym that is good for pull-ups that she wanted to show us, but we didn't have time. So we just did some stretches (ankles to bum to stretch thigh, one foot infront of other to stretch hamstring, foot propped up against wall to stretch calf). We also did full torso stretches like in yoga.

Next week, we're apparently going to look at the pull-up thingy, and then we're gonna do chest training. I've already said that I can't even do 10lbs on the chest press machine, and it's probably gonna be the most difficult week for me.

Chuppah Solutions

2012-01-17T17:52:00.006-05:00

Dude, never underestimate your mother. Even if she's Catholic and you're trying to solve a Jewish problem. Sometimes she'll have the perspective you need.

Like today, I was completely stumped on how to get a chuppah for my wedding. We need some sort of canopy thing, big enough to fit 10 people and a small end table under. The rental companies out East don't really deal with that. One company said they did, but they seemed like flakes and never got back to me. And I'm not really sure they understood. They knew a lot about Indian weddings and canopies for Hindu weddings though.

I contacted the Chabad out East and was given a number of a lady. I called her and explained my situation and ask what they do. She said there was no place to rent chuppahs, and all the weddings that the Chabad have been associated with usually include home-made chuppahs with a tallit (prayer shawl).

The tallit chuppah is fine for a small chuppah that only two people can stand under. Of course, then you need to tie the corners to poles or sticks and have 4 people holding up the sticks the whole time. It wasn't exactly what we had planned.

She also suggested using archways, or drapping tulle between two rented archways. Not exactly the vibe I had envisioned.

I contemplated making my Dad construct something in the backyard. I'm sure we could do it. But then we'd need to transport it from my backyard to the wedding (120 minutes away on the highway). And my Dad is currently working 12 hours shirts in northern Alberta...he doesn't have much time for backyard construction projects.

But then my Mom totally had a great idea. She asked what the requirements were. I said the top needs to be fabric and it has four poles. She asked if it had to be a certain type of fabric, if canvas was ok. I said any fabric is fine, I hear a lot of people use giant bed sheets.

And then Mom said, "Why don't we buy a outdoor patio tent?"

Bam. They come is a neat and tidy shoulder bag. They take about an hour to set up. Outside they blow over pretty easy, but we'll be inside so it's fine. And they usually pop up in stores like crazy around April - May in time for Mother's Day. Given that the wedding is in June, that means they'll be available in stores just at the right time, and there'll be plenty of selection.

Some just have poles in the corners, but some have pretty faux-metal work designs. I told my fiance that if we get one like that, we could spruce it up with ribbon and what not.

And some even have fabric draping down the sides like an actual fancy chuppah.

So seriously, my Mom rocks. One more thing checked off the list, booyah.

Shit Women Say

2012-01-14T13:06:00.004-05:00

I have wedding stuff and working out stuff to blog about, but I'm honestly pretty busy with job applications and teaching my course and analyzing my thesis. To summarize, wedding stuff: crazy, but getting there. Thankfully still having the clarity of mind to put relationships and people's feelings before delusional idealism about a "magical day." Working out stuff: I love my fitbit, and went to some crazy awesome gym classes this week, and tried and indoor track too.

If you want any more detail than that, you're going to need to get it from Shit Girls Say (or Shit Women Say).

To be clear, I don't like sexism, I don't like ploys or gags that belittle one gender. But I honestly don't think the Shit Girls Say qualifies. It just launched last month and was pretty much just a sociological review of trite and meaningless phrases that come of out women. A nice little video of overused cliches. Almost a qualitative content analysis of language patterns.

Here's the original:

See, now wasn't that fun? Me and my circle of friends use other types of phrases like "dude!" and "awesome!" but I still think that was a neato idea for a video. There's been other "episodes" since that, and lots of parodies and spin offs. Some spin-offs take things into sexist territory, but some are also tasteful.

A friend just posted "Shit Brides Say" on facebook this morning:

Thankfully, I don't feel like I have much in common with those brides (yeah!) and that wasn't that particularly funny to me.

However, I found the next one to be hilarious. I've watched it like 4 times. It's "Shit Women Say to Personal Trainers"

I am definitely guilty of a few of those,
"I feel like I gotta go pee!"
"I just want to be healthy"
"Mushrooms are like a fungus!"
"I'm exercising and I'm eating well, but NOTHING is happening."

If you have started watching these videos, let me know which one is your favorite.

And I'm now I'm counting down the hours 'til Mario Kart Marathon! (things geeks do on Saturday nights).

Disorder vs. Delay

2011-12-31T21:35:00.004-05:00

I didn't make any New Years Resolutions a year ago, but wow did I make some changes. If I had have said a year ago, "I'd like to get active," it wouldn't have happened. I didn't say it. I didn't plan it. But I did. Probably not to your standards, but definitely passed mine.

Let me explain.

My big achievement for 2011 is the fact that I started to realize that "Developmental Coordination Disorder" should be renamed to "Developmental Coordination DELAY" - at least in my case.

After 27 years of tripping over my feet, falling up stairs, having no balance, and barely understanding how to walk in a healthy way, I started to take control of myself. I've been citing my older blog posts lately, because it's so relevant to the things I've been writing about. And I'm going to do it again.

18 months ago, I wrote about my weight, and my desire to be lighter in Playing the Weight Game. It basically summarized how I went from a blobby, sedentary person to a non-blobby but still sedentary person.

12 months ago, I wrote about my Developmental Coordination Disorder (known as Dispraxia in the UK and Australia) in Gym Teachers. I was pretty emotionally shook up from a nightmare when I wrote this post, but reading it a year later really surprises me. While the history of my coordination problems, and my conflicts with gym teachers is true, my complacent acceptance of my "disorder" really shocks me. I'm disappointed in my lack of responsibility and my willingness to accept my limitations.

As I look back now on the last 12 months, I'm so proud of what I have done, and it's really hard for me to believe that a year ago I only walked for fitness. It's really hard to believe that a year ago I didn't use the elliptical.

Ok ok, I've used ellipticals a few times at my university gyms. By a few times, I mean probably 6 times ever. 2011 certainly brought about big changes. Maybe they were brought on by that blog post about gym teachers - but up until 20 minutes ago (when I searched my own site), I forgot that blog post even existed. Still, maybe that crazy scarey gym teacher dream did something to me.

Or maybe it was quitting my work at the Unitarian Congregation that did something. Shortly after writing that blog post in December 2010, I got fed up with the Unitarian Universalist Congregation I was attending. In particular, the minister drove me insane, and my volunteer work as a worship associate became onerous. In the second week of January 2011, I wrote him an email stating that I was resigning from my volunteer position. I would help with the service on January 12th and then I'd be gone. My minister wrote me back immediately and asked if I could have a "closure" meeting.

I left my university campus and headed from the congregation. I never bused from school to the Unitarian Congregation before, so the route I took was new. The bus dropped me off about 7 blocks away and I walked the last bit. That walk brought me right by my local YMCA. I had known the YMCA was located there, but I thought it was closing down, that's what the news had said. But as I walked by on that day, I saw people inside working out.

After I quit my Unitarian congregation, I googled my YMCA and found out that it was remaining open for another 18 months. Sure, I had a "free" membership as my university gym, but I didn't like the environment, and without a car I really didn't like bringing gym clothes to school with my books and things.

So as I eluded to in Working Out, by January 25, 2011 I had already tried out the YMCA a few times, and was completely pleased with the experience.

What I didn't explain in the earlier posts was why the YMCA experience was so amazing on a physical level. Yes, the set up and clients and whole supportive environment was awesome and necessary for me. But I also quickly found out how blissful it was to push myself to the point I could not stress out. Making both legs and both arms go on the elliptical while trying to maintain my balance, listen to the audio, watch some video, keep and eye on my stats, and drink water left no brain resources to be anxious over my school work. It was the stress-relief that helped me to write my PhD thesis proposal.

I wasn't great at it - I kept resistance low, and just did my own thing. But I loved it. Soon I was logging my "score" (calories, watt power and speed) in a notebook and trying for "bests." I stopped going to the Unitarian congregation completely and instead went to the gym on Sundays. It gave me a better rush and a better sense of calm.

I also tried swimming lessons at the Y, but when I couldn't master floating after the first class and the instructor pretty much gave up on me, I gave up on myself and never went back for swimming. However, aquafit was a different story. jumping jacks, water jogging, and various other cardio moves was just plain fun. And the complicated stuff the "pendulum" and the "rocking horse" and anything that involved asymmetrical movement with the limbs or leg and arms going in opposite directions was a challenge, but a doable challenge. I left the first class cognitively exhausted from trying to comprehend how to make my body move in the desired way. I could do it. My reaction time was slow and in class it would take a few rotations to get it, but I could do it all. I went to 3-4 classes as a drop-in and each time left feeling like I had just taken a calculus class.

In March I found out why. My university invited a speaker who actually addressed Developmental Coordination Disorder and addressed how to "rewire" the brain. Halleluiah. I saw the light. Someone was finally speaking my language.

My whole life, I divided mental from physical. Mind vs. Body. Strength vs. Smarts. Muscles vs. Brains. But that's where I had it wrong. As far as our brains are concerned, the neurons that help you play chess and understand logic, and have a photographic memory are no different than the neurons that send messages to your motor neurons and your muscles. I didn't have damage in my motor neurons or my muscles, my body is fine. Yes, the neurons in my brain that send signals to my motor neurons are out of order - but learning to ride a bike or swim or skate is no different than learning to play chess.

It's slower. If we have a optimal time point for learning languages, then we definitely have an optimal time for learning to walk and run, and catch balls. But once you're passed that optimal age it's not over. I know that. In the past 4 years, I've gotten really good at catching small balls or random things people toss at me from across the room (if by really good I mean on average with others - but that's huge for me!).

So everytime I worked out on the elliptical, I was improving and helping to organize the synapses in my brain. It made sense. In addition to feeling physical effects, like being faster and not getting out of breath, I felt mentally different. I didn't "mini-panic" when my focus went from my legs to my arms, I could almost pay attention to all 4 limbs at once. So if I kept it up, maybe I'd be able to move onto other physical (and more demanding things).

And the opportunity came. My friend invited me to walk a 3k Fun Run with her. She normally runs the 3km and 5km races that are organized by a local running group. But it was February, and she wanted to just walk the Fun Run as a registered walker. She described it as "leisurely." She convinced me - I showed up in jeans (leisurely!). The race started, I jogged at first, and then was a mile behind everyone. She stayed with me and then we ran/jogged the last 0.5km. Part of me was embarrassed, we were the last people to finish. But no one cared, they were all super supportive. It was such a great, positive environment. The "race kit" came with lots of running magazines. I felt weird reading them (4 weeks before I was a literal couch potato), but I was so motivated by what they promoted. It was all about "personal bests" not competitions. I loved it, I was hooked.

Once in a while I'd skip a few weeks at the gym if school became intense, but I'd always go back. I signed up for more Fun Runs as a "walker." On Mother's Day, my friend couldn't make it, I was alone in a pack of 500 runners and walkers. Somehow I ended up jogging along with a high school rugby team for the first (downhill) kilometer of the 5km. I didn't even know I could do that. Sure, I eventually took my place at the back of the pack, and the race marshalls were concerned with my "limp." but I happily said, "I'm fine, just dispraxia!" and kept walking. I felt great. I felt amazing.

I told my fiance that I jogged the 1km straight, and then jogged in spurts throughout the 5km. He convinced me to just "try jogging" sometime. I did. I tried to hold the jog as long as I could, I tried to resist giving up and walking. My first time out, I jogged for 10 minutes straight. Then 12 minutes. Then 15, then 20 minutes. I spent May and June completely hooked on jogging. I was going out 3 times a week and jogging the bike paths in my neighbourhood. I even tried jogging on the sidewalks, but intersections make me loose rhythm. I did another 3km Fun Run, and jogged it in 27 minutes. Yes, I was last, but I was proud.

Also in spring, I joined my fiance and his classmates at ROCK CLIMBING. I heard somewhere that anyone who can walk can climb. I would recommend upper body strength as well. I couldn't get up that high on my first try, I was really nervous, and I cried a little when I couldn't figure out how to un-tense myself so I could repel back down. It seemed so unnatural to sit back in the sit and take my death grip off the knobs on the wall. Thankfully, the instructor was great, he talked me through it. I got down, wiped me tears, and went right back up. "Old me" never would have done that. I would have left. I ended up going up and down 4 times. We were with 10 people and had the entire place rented to ourselves. Everyone else was doing complicated challenger walls. I never even reach the top of the beginner wall, but I was extremely proud of myself. I would never have thought I could do it, I would have never thought I could reach the turtle.

Then, the big finale of the spring was a 5km Fun Run in my neighbourhood. On the very bike paths I was jogging on normally. I had to do good on this. I really wanted to do good. Well, I was only aiming to keep my pace and come in around 45 minutes, which tied with the 2010 last place runner. That was my goal.

The week of the race, my knee felt weak. I thought it was nerves. The night before, I walked to get my race kit and my knee hurt. I did the race anyway. It was brutal. Running on a narrow bike path (as opposed to a road) is really difficult. I didn't come in last, and I finished in 42 minutes. And I had a free massage after.

Unfortunately, I also had an overtraining injury in my knee. I didn't jog for a week, but it still hurt. I gave up jogging, and tried aquafit. That was ok, until an underwater Russian dance pulled it more. So then I just rested it. After 4 weeks of rest, it still hurt. In July, I went to the doctor and started physio. I was going overseas in 4 weeks, and had to get my knee back for that. I did was the physiotherapist said - no intensive exercise except ball squats, ankle weight lifts and some slow stationary cycling. Even speed walking through malls was hurting. But I did keep doing the elliptical on really easy mode and not pushing it. I was in love with the YMCA elliptical.

Overseas involved tons and tons walking, and stairs in various Mediterranean countries - including climbing the Acropolis in Greece (which is totally brag worthy). It also included riding a camel and floating in the Dead Sea on the same day. I couldn't believe I was floating, I was ecstatic. I panicked a little, it was a weird sensation, it was so difficult to untense my body. But I got it. Then, we went on a cruise, and my fiance taught me to float in non-Dead Sea water. No word of a lie. It took about 9 trips to the (cold) pools on the cruise ships. I cried a lot, I made my fiance get really mechanically detailed about body movement and balance. I could never ever had learned it with anyone except him, and it speaks to his awesomeness that we were successful. First I learned to float on my back, and then finally my front. It was a huge milestone for me.

When I got back from vacation, I jogged/walked the 10km Terry Fox Run for Cancer Research and I raised over $500 doing so. It was a weird run because there was no starting time. I started as early as possible and was quickly at the back of the pack. But late starters kept passing me so I always felt like I was with the group. My legs were numb after 7.5km. My knee injury came back a few days later after that, so I took the first half of October pretty easy, and then I went back to the YMCA.

I've also expanded my workout from the elliptical. I started doing the resistance training, and using 5lb free weights (my arms are spaghetti). My physio in the summer gave me a better appreciation for stationary bikes, and I've also done the occasional aquafit class. I bought a Fitbit health tracker and that encouraged me to try out the treadmill. I've given it 4 trials and I'm not a fan. Running feels like hopping, jogging feels totally forced, and walking seems easy but my ankle really hurt the next day.

I found out in mid-November that I came in 2nd place for the "Athena" category of women over 150lbs from the Fun Runs I did in spring. I received a framed photo of me running in the 5km Fun Run that was in my neighbourhood. It is now hung up on my wall. Who would have thought that a year ago?

Then 3 weeks ago at a Christmas party, the host offered to take me to the nearest bus station on his tandem (two-person) bike. I declined, citing my coordination and balance. He offered to show me the bike, and then started with stories of uncoordinated uncles and unbalanced aunts. He assured me that the responsibility of balance is with the person in front - along with all the steering, braking, and gear shifting. I was a "passenger." I was doubtful, but I thought it was worth the scraped knee.

It was amazing. True freedom. I couldn't believe it. There were so many "little" things I didn't grasp - how the brakes work, what are "gears", putting one foot down at intersections, etc. But since I was on the back, I could watch his footwork, and enjoy it. I never thought I'd be able to understand what it was like to cycle, my squeals of joy were likely similar to an 8 year old child learning to ride.

Cycling has always been one of the big 4. Skating, swimming, driving and cycling are the 4 things I want to do but cannot. Now I understand that I can do anything, I'm physically able to, as long as I give myself more time. I don't have an inner ear problem, or anything that permanently keeps me from doing this stuff. I took 27 years to figure out jogging, 9 hours to figure out floating but I did. My neurons firing in my motor cortex of my brain are unorganized, but with practice, I can get better. I'm not disabled, I'm just delayed.

(This post was originally written on December 15th). Since writing this post I have one more accomplishment. For Christmas, I flew to Calgary and visited my brother. On Boxing Day, we drove through Banff and to Lake Louise. I was nervous about the slippery icy paths that he said we'd need to take to go to the lake. But he didn't take me to the lake. We got out of the car and started walking up hill, up this crazy steep, snowy path. He wanted to check out the Fairview Look off - 1.6km away. 1.6km is nothing - right? Well, that wasn't counting the vertical distance.

By the time we reached the 1.2km marker (meaning we had gone .4km) I thought I'd never catch my breath. After the 1.0km marker we took a wrong way. I swear we walked further than 1.6km. Eventually we turned around, went back down, found the right path, and but gave up about 500m from the top.

My lungs had been impaired since driving through Banff. I had been to Denver before (5200 feet above sea level) and had no problems, so Banff at 4800 ft shouldn't have given me trouble, but I think it's because we drove there quickly and my body didn't have time to adjust. The base of the trail at the lake is 5500 ft above sea level, and my Fitbit shows that I walked up 48 floors. Including the doubling back down two trails, I think I was probably at 5800 ft at the highest. That's right about when my family called and wanted me to sing Happy Birthday to my sister over the speaker phone, and I really didn't have the lung capacity to do so.

My brother teased me over my lack of cardio-vascular fitness, and my inability to get to the summit. I'm sure that others will certainly think it was anything but a success. To me, it was a huge accomplishment. I smashed my pre-conceived notion of my limitations. It was crazy slippery and steep, but I didn't even fall once. My lungs felt insane and I wanted to puke, but I was able to catch my breath as soon as we started headed downhill. Sure, I would have liked to have reached the top, but I know that as long as I work on these things gradually I can do them.

So bring it on 2012, I can't wait to see what you have in store. Aside from finishing my dissertation, graduating, getting married, moving, getting a job, and turning 29.

Christmas This Year

2011-12-24T08:22:00.003-05:00

I have written a lot about Christmas on this blog. It's because my family is awesome, and we've always made it a special, awesome time together.

Up until now, almost every Christmas of my life has contained these elements: My grandfather showing up on the 24th, a big turkey feast, opening one present on Christmas eve, having lots of Christmas snacks, watching Santa on the fire engine (who was sometimes my uncle), drinking, eating, and merriment. In the morning when we were little, we'd open our stockings really early, and then we'd all sit around the living room and open tons and tons of presents, and then play with our stuff through the house. Then we'd eat Christmas snacks for days and be lazy.

For more detailed versions, you can read My Family's Christmas, Christmas Highlights, or just browse my list of posts about Christmas.

I love Christmas. My parents have always worked hard to make it awesome for everyone and the seven of us (My 2 sisters, 1 brother, 2 parents, Papa and me) have always been together for Christmas. Every year of my life, that is what Christmas has been.

I mean, it's not all rose-colored all the time. Someone is usually sick with a cold, a few years in a row my eldest sister went to the hospital with pneumonia on Christmas Eve (just to the outpatience, she was fine and everything worked out). One year, my other sister cut off the tip of her finger while slicing up some Christmas french bread and meats and cheese. My childhood dog Frankie loved to get loose on Christmas Eve, to the point I swore that he was secretly a Reindeer because he'd always come back. One Christmas eve when I was 8, I fell in the toilet at 2am because my grandfather left the seat up (it's funny now). But those quirky stories are what makes Christmas even more special sometimes.

In recent years, the traditions have gotten a bit shook up. In 2003, my Mom was really sick with a bad disc in her spine and Dad made the turkey. In 2006 my brother was living in PEI and volunteer to work Christmas but had the 20th and 21st off work. We did all of our usually 24th stuff on the 20th, and all the 25th stuff on the 21st. My grandfather stayed the night and everything, and extended family even came visiting. It felt authentic, despite what the calendar said.

My oldest sister always wants to open the presents early, and in 2007 she got her wish. After opening 1 gift on Christmas Eve, people just kept going. I didn't like it at all, the 25th had not specialness to it after that. In 2008, my fiance and I attempted to fly home so he could witness and authentic Christmas, and instead I got stuck in Toronto for 3 days while he made it. I arrived at 1am on Christmas Eve, and then we did do all the traditions. In 2009, my grandfather moved into an apartment next to my parents and didn't sleep over, but was there for the Christmas turkey and things.

In 2010, my sister stayed in Halifax on Christmas Eve, and arrived home with my nieces on the afternoon of Christmas day. Even though we did all the normal traditions, something had changed. It didn't feel the same. I didn't feel the same about Christmas. It was still a great time, but I knew our family was getting to big to maintain the same patterns (from 7 people to 9 adults, 2 kids, 2 dogs and a cat).

This year, we've done something completely different.

My eldest sister moved into her very first apartment in April, making my parents empty nesters, officially. My brother moved to Alberta and said he wasn't planning to fly home for Christmas. My other sister planned to stay in Halifax with her kids (at least on Christmas Eve). That put me in a unique spot - do I fly home to spend time alone with my parents? Yeah, my sisters would "visit" also, but it wouldn't be the same.

Instead, I decided to fly out to see my brother. I've never been west before. If we all couldn't be together, and I live halfway between my brother and my parents, I figured I might as well give my brother company.

My sisters decided to spend the holidays together, so the eldest is driving to Halifax to stay with the nieces.

Then my grandfather got sick. A month ago he was placed in palliative care with 5 brain tumors and told that he had 1-3 months left. My mom has been spending most of her time with him at the hospital, and my Dad has been there regularly too.

Up until now, the 7 of us have been together every year since 1987 (as that's when my brother was born). But now we're spread in 3 cities.

If Christmas is about family, then I think we've still succeeded. Sure, we've argued and teased, and bickered over when to open presents, or what to do about my snoring, or how much to spend on gifts, etc. in the past. But my family is awesome. There's a lot of families out there that have serious issues and don't get along, or have mega drama. My family's not one of them. We're really close, and we're all pretty sentimental and good to each other. And I think that's what matters.

Whether we're together or apart, we've still managed to connect and care about each other. It's almost like we've just expanded and started franchising out our awesome Christmasness through spreading into more cities. The four females all mailed presents to everyone, one sister even mailed out Christmas decor for my apartment and my brother's place.

Me and my brother will make new traditions this year, and so will my two sisters. It's undoubtedly a harder time for my parents with their empty home and my sick grandfather. But since my Mom won't have to be a Super Mom and Christmas Hostess, maybe that'll actually be easier. And her and Dad can do all the cool "childless" things like go to holiday party and not rush home.

So, this year is a year about changes. But even though it's changed, and even though they're far away, I still feel like I'm spending the holidays with my family in a weird sort of way. Yes, I call home like 3 times a day, so maybe that's why. But I know that while I'm in Calgary doing Christmas, they're across the continent doing stuff, so it still feels like we're together.

NDP Leadership Debate

2011-12-04T16:12:00.005-05:00

Today there was the first debate in the race for a new NDP leader. Unlike in the past, when NDP was discounted and considered a "throw away" 3rd party, it's now the hotspot. And so there's 9 candidates.

I raced home (literally) and streamed the English and French debates on CPAC. Though I was still in boots and my winter coat and frantically writing notes during the English hour, the French hour gave me much less insights (probably because I was listening to a translation).

After watching Jon Stewart tear apart GOP candidates in the US, I thought I'd put my psychological analysis skills to work and analyze the NDP candidates. Here's my rough notes about the candidates, presented in the order of their opening statements.

Chisholm (top row, far left) - he's from Nova Scotia which shouldn't be a plus, but it is for me. I'll admit my bias. I was a bit stunned to see him introduce himself with almost an imitation of Jack Layton. He had the hand gestures, and pretty near soundbytes down. I don't want to elect Jack II. Jack is gone. We need the next leader after Jack.

But that aside, Chisholm looked good. He had a genuine sparkle in his eye and lots of good "leadership" poise. He spoke well, and confidently. He sounded polished. He appeared strong.

Of course, in the French debate, he was the only candidate I didn't need the robotic translation for, because he spoke English. I identify with his Anglophone ways, but that pretty much disqualified him in my mind. I'm not going to vote for the next leader soley because of strategy, but I disrespect anyone gunning for the big federal positions who cannot speak both official languages. I made fun of Stephen Harper for his crappy French, so Chisholm is not off the hook.

Ashton (second top row) - She's 29 years old. Although she's very experience and almost "veteran" MP, her speaking style made her seem really nonconfident, and really unpolished. Honestly, if I ran for NDP leadership, I feel like I'd look a lot like her. I'd speak too fast, sound a little too enthusiastic, idealistic, and high strung. I'd be passionate to a fault, and no one would take me serious. I like her, I really do. But I know I'm not cut out for the job, and I don't think she is either. Aside from her "rough edge," she wasn't charismatic enough, she spoke a bit roboticly, and I couldn't really see her succeeding in a Federal election debate. Not at all.

Honestly, she'll make an excellent cabinet minister. She seemed so smart and diligent. There's no doubt in my mind that she connects well with her constituents and makes fantastic reports. She's great. But she's not a leader. She could be a major working cog in the party though.

Topp (bottom row, far right) - Ugh! He's the backroom planner, with lots of endorsements from his fellow backroom planners. Honestly, he needs to stay in the backroom. Except for another candidate (that I'll get to), Topp was the most unlikable. I don't understand the huge endorsements he has received. And honestly, this leadership race shouldn't be about big-name endorsements, because that's not what the NDP is about. Someone who prioritizes them is not someone who prioritizes the NDP I believe in.

So what was wrong with Topp? He had an awful speaking style. He was completely awkward. He doesn't seem to "connect" he just spews out facts. Some are good facts, but no one is going to listen. Most importantly, he creeped me out. When asked his position on things, he'd regularly start with "slamming" the other parties - which is something the NDP avoided in the last election and helped them. When he did this, I pegged Topp as a user of attack ads, and I don't like that. When the candidates were asked to debate certain topics, Topp went off topic and attacked fellow candidate Dewar about his GST policy, and Dewar (rightfully) brought him back on topic.

He seemed disrespectful and cutthroat and sometimes really boastful. He was a squat, short, little amphibian like guy, who didn't connect. I don't fucking want him as the leader of the NDP. He's one of 3 candidates that I'm actively against and not for. Maybe he did good for the party behind the scenes. If so, he should really go back behind the scenes.

Cullen (bottom row, 2nd from left) - he's from BC, and wasn't considered a front runner. Except for the eye balls popping out of his head, I thought he had good poise, and the most charisma out of all of them (by far). He was really focused on the issues and brought up lots of key things that struck me and surprised me. He was blunt in a way that Jack Layton has been blunt - he (rightfully) called Stephen Harper a racist for his discrimination towards First Nations "accountability" and I really appreciated that and even cheered for him a bit.

However, Cullen came across as a Liberal at the wrong party. Like Topp, he played the blame game and just seemed 'ready' to attack. He was a smooth talker, but that made him seem more like a shark, and I don't know if I liked that. Plus, some of his rhetoric came across as really Liberal in its ideology - which isn't what I want. (If it was, I'd be a Liberal voter, not an NDP voter.)

Mulcair (bottom row, second from right with the beard) - Of course, if Cullen seemed like a Liberal, Mulcair and his red tie just screamed Liberal. He's a major front runner in this race, and I'm scared of that. In his opening words, he stated his desire for "reaching beyond the traditional base" of the NDP. Basically, he wants to change things around so the NDP will appeal to more people. And that means he wants to bring the party more center and less left WHICH I AM TOTALLY AGAINST. He's a former Liberal. Just because a lot of left-wing liberals voted NDP last time does not mean the party should roll over and cater to them. In all honesty, Mulcair scares me because of this exact stance, which is he so damn proud of.

If he was a flake and wanted those things, I wouldn't care. But Mulcair is strong. He was a full fucking package deal. He spoke some French in the English debate, he spoke some English in the French debate just to show that he was awesome. He was so comfortable, he made it look like he does these things all the time. He was well-spoken, and smart, and pretty awesome. If he was the leader of the Liberals, I'd love this guy. But I don't want him as the the leader of the NDP!

And like a Liberal, he got a little hung up on the details of one of his strategies at one point. He was rattling on and on about some complicated plan that made me think of Dion. I mean, the guy has class. He seems really cool. But he's also inauthentic, and doesn't align with the party's values. He shouldn't be the party's leader.

Oh, and he also tried to be Jack II, which really bugged me. And he's also "center-leaning" in his economic policy, which is kinda anti-NDP. And he's not "pro-tarsands" but he's not "anti-tarsands" and he just really confused me on that issue.

Dewar (bottom row, far left) - This guy was painful. Paul Dewar is the most honest and humble and sweet candidate out there. I went to his launch party. I really, genuinely like this guy. He is a really great guy, and has been an excellent MP and an excellent "shadow cabinet" minister.

But, Dewar was an epic fail at this debate. I cringed he was so terrible. By the end of his opening statement, I knew I really couldn't put my support behind him anymore. For the entire 2 hours, he was stiff as a board, and looked scared or sick or both. Maybe it was a one-time stint of anxiety, but the leader of the opposition can not have that. Some of his ideas were awesome, but I honestly couldn't even listen to him. His voice was so stiff and robot-like and boring. So sorry Paul.

On the plus, Dewar did speak about the grassroots movement, which I greatly prioritize. He seems to stand for most what I believe in connecting and representing real people - the opposite of backroom endorsements. He also gracefully escaped Topp's cuthroat attack.

Saganash (bottom row, middle) - I was expecting Romeo to be a bit more charismatic. The newspapers made him out to be eccentric. During the 2 hour debate, he was a trembly, shakey, stuttery guy, who was power hungry and delusional and not intelligent enough to be a leader. You don't need to be a rock scientist to be a politician. But you need to have wits and quick reflexes and a deep understanding of issues. And he didn't seem to have those. What Saganash had was a rudimentary grasp of some really basic ideals, that he would just repeat. After his 4th or 5th time on the microphone, I started blocking him out. He was operating on another wave length.

Nash (top row, 3rd from left) - Prior to this debate, I had assumed that Peggy Nash was the "token" female candidate. I figured that she'd soapbox about women's rights, or gender equality, and yada yada. I wasn't considering her at all. Boy, I learned my lesson. I like women who don't overplay the gender card, she didn't play it at all (which was huge bonus points for me).

She was one of the 3 most charismatic. She was one of the top 2 in terms of confidence and well-spoken, well-thought comments. She was awesome. Nash started her opening statement with such clear, interesting and understanding ideas, and in such a strong, and sensible tone that it grabbed me right away. She is intensely fiscally minded (she was shadow finance minister). She sounded immensely rational and intelligent. In general, she had a great speaking and debating style. She framed the issues concisely, argued her point with the optimal level of passion, and never rattled on or stuttered. And everything she said seemed so smart and well though out, I just had to agree with it all. her prison vs. schools comment, her triade of economical, social, and environmental well-being, her emphasis on food security, her connection between housing projects and jobs.

Nash was able to bring up more issues and explain them better than any other candidate. In terms of strategy, she will connect with voters. She will be able to get messages across. She had the poise and the brains, and all the right priorities. I was completely impressed.

Singh (top row, far right) - The last candidate truly was the least. This guy is a complete joke. I really hope he drops out before the next debate. Amateur doesn't even do him justice. He was flakey, explicitly power hungry, narcissistic and delusional. Although he had a clear voice, his tone was all wrong. In the first 5 minutes you learn that he's owned "many businesses in rural and urban Canada," and he repeated that line almost everytime he spoke. He's also a pharmacist. Basically, he's a flake, a non-committed flake who wanted to try politics. He barely said anything of substance at all, except that he really wants to be Prime Minister. I do know from raeding an article on CBC about him that he's very pro-business and considers himself more economically center that traditional NDP members.

I sincerely hope Singh was a joke and was just there to advertise his businesses. He's not cut out for leadership, or even cabinet minister work. He might made a good cult-leader.

With out a doubt, Mulcair and Nash were the strongest two. Cullen and Chisholm also appeared strong, followed closely by Ashton. Dewar and Topp were completely left behind in their own awkwardness, and Saganash and Singh were just disasters on stage. I couldn't take Saganash or Singh seriously. At least Saganash seems like he'd be good as a community leader, or working on a council, or for an NGO, and yes as an MP. Singh...well yeah, he should check out his options as a cult-leader.

If I had to rank order my favorites (thus ranking Mulcair lower because of his Liberal leaning ways), I would rank them in this order: Nash, Chisholm, Cullen, Ashton, Dewar, Mulcair, Topp, Saganash, Singh.

So, go Peggy Nash!

Vitamin Water

2011-12-03T12:21:00.004-05:00

So disgusting.

I think it was 2008, or around the first year of my PhD. But suddenly on campus, colorful bottles of "Vitamin Water" started springing up.

I never bought it. Not a single one. It freaked me out. I had lived through the "Crystal Lite" fad, I had been reading Yoni Freedhoff's blog "Weighty Matters" for over a year, and I wasn't going to get coned into that disaster.

And the time, I thought it was simply, water, vitamins, and sugar. That's how most dietians have described it. Basically a multivitamin and some sugar. Nothing to pay outrageous prices over.

But the colorful (and attractive) displays persisted. I saw my colleagues bring them to class, I saw students guzzle them in the mis-belief they were "healthy." Don't get me wrong, I'm all for junk food when you want junk food. I love chocolate, I had a softspot for all dressed ruffle chips, and Orange Crush and peanut M&Ms. But when I eat those things, I am aware that they are junk food.

I continued on my silent boycott. I noticed the product was staying, and lasting. It's be a 4 year fad so far. I'm aware that a lot of intelligent people in my life are into this stuff. A few weeks ago, I had someone attempt to explain that there's a newer, healthier line of Vitamin Water with less calories. My eyes and ears glazed over, I wasn't persuaded.

Two days ago, I won an athletic award if you can believe that. Last spring, I entered a few "fun runs" in the women over 150pounds category. I ended up ranking 2nd place in that category for the whole season. Pretty neat.

My award consisted of a framed photo of me running in one of the events, and a huge gift bag of goodies. The gift bag contained brochures for fun runs and marathons, coupons for athletic stores, and some actual products like energy bars, energy gels, hand lotion, a travel mug, and a 591ml bottle of Vitamin Water.

I had the urge to toss the Vitamin Water right in the garbage. But I took it home, put it in my fridge, and decided to think about it. I mostly drink water, but once in a while I drink soft drinks, and sugary fruit drinks. Certainly this drink is no worse for me than those. The next time I'm craving Orange Crush or a fruity drink, maybe I'll crack open the bottle of "Recoup Peach Mandarin."

Today at lunch I decided to give it a try. Two twists and the "10 Calories" cap came off. On the tip of my tongue, it tasted just like Tim Horton's peach juice. Not bad, ok. I took it to the computer to sit down.

But then the juice hit the back of my tongue, "Whoa, terrible after taste!" I exclaimed in shock. "It's so bitter and gross. Ughhhhh. Why would it- oh."

I realized what the bitter taste was. I had only ever tasted it once before - when I tried Diet Coke by accident. Aspartame. That's why there's only 10 calories in a bottle, there's a toxic chemical in it. Funny enough, it doesn't seem to list aspartame as an ingredient, but a quick search on the web tells me that I'm correct and it's in there.

Well, that's just evil. Putting a toxic chemical in a product, not listing that chemical on the label, and then selling the product as a health food. Wow.

The bottle is still sitting on the desk beside me. It looks barely touched, because the only thing I ingested was that one gulp. And that's the only thing I'm going to ingest.

Seriously people, this shit is shit. Yick.

Addendum It's now poured down the sink. Much like Tom Cruise and Scientology, the boycott is on.

Yes I now many important and wonderful people in my life are hooked on aspartame. And even the wikipedia website calls it all "urban legends" and internet rumors. Seriously, something that tastes like evil on my tongue is not just an urban legend. Believe what you want to, but here is my list of "boogeyman" links telling you why it's bad.

http://smallbites.andybellatti.com/?p=8050

http://urbangardenmagazine.com/2010/04/aspartame-the-politics-of-food/

http://www.naturalnews.com/011804_aspartame_NutraSweet.html

http://www.naturalnews.com/028151_aspartame_sweeteners.html

http://nutrition-now.com/2009/09/dangers-of-aspertame-what-you-need-to-know-to-protect-your-health/

http://thewatchers.adorraeli.com/2011/11/15/aspartame-becomes-natural-aminosweet/

http://healthfreedoms.org/2010/02/15/aspartame-has-been-renamed-and-is-now-being-marketed-as-a-natural-sweetener/

Yes, some of the links are pretty flaky and hippie dippy. But the historical facts about the FDA approval process of aspartame are hard for me to ignore. And, there are licensed, caring dietians that feel the same way I do. For more, check out this nutrition blog and follow andybellatti on Twitter. He's awesome.

My Papa

2011-11-28T11:11:00.007-05:00

I've been lucky to know all four of my grandparents. One passed away 11 eleven years ago, another 5.5 years ago, and a third will likely keep going for years.

Of the four, the one I'm closest to, is currently in his last transition - the days or weeks or months before his end. I could wait and write all this stuff once he's gone, and make it into a eulogy of sorts, but I'd rather post it now. He doesn't have a computer, he's in palliative care at the hospital right now, but there's always the off-chance that my Mom or sister will mention that I bragged about him all over the internet. And that might put a half-smirk on his face, which will make it worth it.

So here's some of my favorites memories and stories about my Papa.

First, Papa was a rebel. He used to drive motorbikes, waaay back then, before James Dean. He pretty much lived his way, and kept his independence the whole time. My grandparents were divorced when my Mom was young, so for most of my life, my Papa has been a "hermit" in the country. That just made him endlessly cool to me.

I don't remember his "old" A-shaped house very much. I remember his room with tons of collectibles and paper weights - a wind-up finger that would walk, and surfers in an oil/water rectangular prism. I remember running outside around on his property with tons of produce and blueberries. He was always bringing us in tubs of blueberries, or fish, or zucchini. I remember being really little and bored with the grown up talk and going upstairs in the "a-line" and sitting on the air vent that was directly over his kitchen table. I liked "spying" on him and Mom.

When I was in Grade 5, Papa sold his "old house" in the country, and built a new one. He was 62 or 63 years old I think, and he built himself a smaller, two bedroom bungalow. And he painted one bedroom neon green (another epically cool feature). He also drove a bright orchid pink car. As someone who loves colors, having a grandfather who would pick really obscure colors was just fun. Really fun.

The drive out to his new country home was beautiful. Above 35 minutes from my parents and way out of town, you'd drive through the carved rolling hills of Antigonish. As a passenger, it was always a really relaxing and beautiful drive, and made me like going to visit Papa even more.

The basement of his bungalow was filled with woodworking machines and tools. Papa was an avid woodworker. He always made me presents that he built himself. When I was 5 and got a "real baby doll" he built me a crib for her. When I received two smaller baby dolls, he built me wooden bunkbeds. When I collected pig ornaments, he built me a barn shaped wall shelf; when I collected dragons he built me another shelf that I designed myself. When I didn't want to work on my racing car for industrial arts, he took it home and fixed it up for me.

My favorite woodworking project was my drawing desk. When I was an undergrad, I saw a picture of a bed desk that I loved. I gave Papa a picture from a catalog, and he created it. It's absolutely beautiful. It's identical to the picture a the top of the post. You can even prop it up with douls that he added.

I was close to my maternal grandmother as well (Nanny), but Papa always felt like immediate family and not extended family to me. That's probably because he spent Christmas with us. My parents were married in December, and my eldest sister was born on Boxing Day. Starting the year after my sister was born, Papa has stayed with us for Christmas. From 1979 to 2008, he slept over at our house. Growing up, it was one of my favorite traditions.

A few weeks before Christmas, Papa would always bring us a Poinsettia plant. I think he bought one for all the families on the hill. We'd have Christmas dinner on the 24th, Papa would drive in from the country and sit at his regular seat at the table. Then we'd crack open the spirits and munchies, entertain visitors, watch for Santa on the fire truck, and listen to Papa's rants. He liked whiskey, and most years that made him pretty darn entertaining (one year my brother even videotaped his hilarious rants). On Christmas morning, me and my siblings would anxiously want to open our presents, but couldn't because Papa would be snoring on the couch next to the Christmas tree. He was legitly the one thing that kept me from opening presents at 4am. Every year, at 7am, we'd wake every up, and the 4 kids, 2 parents, and my Papa would open gifts together in the living room. When everything was opened and presents were spread throughout the house, Papa would sit at the table and drink coffee, while I'd play with my latest toy on the kitchen floor. He'd sit there and watch the 4 kids and take it in. Later in the afternoon on the 25th, he'd gather up his presents and head back to the country, which kinda marked the end of "Christmas" each year.

Papa always tried to act gruff and distant, but I've always seen him as a softy. He'd always do stuff for us when we needed him. He was always available to drive me places like medical appointments when my parents were working, or to St. F. X. for special events because it was just past his place. I remember me and him going to Antigonish together and eating at Dairy Queen.

When I was little, he always called me Matilda or Medusa, and he liked teasing me. At the same time, he liked giving me collector's coins, and random collectibles that he found. Whenever he got a reader's digest bonus gift, he'd show up and give it to me or my sisters. When both my parents were working and me and my brother were left home alone (as adolescents), Papa would always stop by during "lunch" to check up on us. I liked his lunch time visits with just us. I'd get to sit at the table and talk to him without all the "adult talk." When I got older, I started taking part in the adult talk anyway, because I liked Papa's stories so much.

Papa was retired for most (if not all) of my life. Before retirement, he was in the Navy for 25 years. I liked hearing his stories about traveling the world, and I was upfront about my desires to travel. When I graduated high school, he bought me an ornament of a pig and a microscope. He said there was also a pig and a globe, but he didn't want to get that because I should be studying and not traveling!

But it was Papa's fault that I like to travel. My immediate family never really left Nova Scotia (our first family trip to PEI was in 1999 when I was 16), but Papa would regularly drive from Nova Scotia to Ontario to visit his sister and parents. Ontario seemed really far away, like another country. In 1990, when I was 6 and Papa was 58, he drove me, my mom and my sisters to Toronto for a week to stay with my aunt. We also go to meet Papa's family. I was always super grateful for that trip - it's be another 21 years before I had to explore Toronto in-depth like that again. It definitely sparked my interest in traveling.

He always liked to tease. And I'd tease him right back. At family get-togethers, he'd sometimes play the "grumpy old man" role, but I'd see right through that. At my sister's post-wedding bbq, there were tons of chairs and benches, but Papa sat on a sideways wooden block in a corner. Just as he was saying, "Wow this seat is stiff," I said, "Papa, smarten up. You shouldn't be sitting on a wooden block!" And he smirked. Sometimes I swore he just did funny things like that to say he did it.

I always liked his company, and I liked doing things for him. At family gatherings, like bbq parties at my uncles, I'd sit with Papa and run to get him food when needed (it gave me an excuse to talk politics and current affairs with the men, rather than gossip with the women). I liked visiting with him. Once me and my Mom brought him pizza for lunch, and he wasn't home. We tidied up a bit and I wrote a note about the pizza. He left my pizza note on the fridge door for at least a year, because he's funny like that.

When we were little (and birthdays still counted) Papa would give us birthday money. He had a wall calendar with everyone's birthdays written on it. But it was an old calendar - like a 1992 version. He was still using it in 1997 or so, and complained that the days of the week didn't match up right, but he couldn't get a new one without all the birthdays written on it. One year for Christmas, I called all the relatives and got everyone's birthdays and wedding anniversaries and made him a new calendar. He liked it, but thought it was funny that I'd put wedding anniversaries on it, "I don't buy presents for those!" he'd say. "Well, you might want to say 'happy anniversary!" I'd reply.

Papa has always acted nervous and stand-offish with really young babies. But I know one of his greatest joys in life has been watching and knowing his 12 grandchildren (and 4 great grandchildren). He loves to hear about our comings and goings and genuinely cares. Aside from kids, he's also a dog person, even though he might deny it. When he was in his early 60s, he somehow wound up with a dachshund, and those two were a great pair. They both always smelled like woodsmoke, and both had a charming but gruff attitude.

Papa has always been there for the big moments in my life. Every Christmas, every Thanksgiving, a few lunchtimes a week, and most Sundays when Mom would cook a big dinner. He was at my high school graduation, and even my university graduation in another province. He was 74 at the time, and my parents were trying to tell me that an 8 hour drive might be too much, but I was really happy Papa came. He was also the catalyst for me dumping Mr. Wrong (because he was the only one who would be bluntly honest with me about the jerk I was dating).

I've lived away from home for 10 years. Every time I return, Papa comes to visit at my Mom's house either the day I arrive or the day after. And he's always there the day before I go back. It's flattering. I know he's excited to see me. It's one of the most welcoming gestures I receive when I come home.

We all have vices, and Papa is no saint. He has always like smoking and drinking a bit too much, and has hard time with dealing with clutter (and dust). But all things considered, he's had a pretty good run. I knew it'd take a lot to slow him down.

When I was in Grade 3, Papa lived with us for a month (at age 59 or 60) because he dropped a tree on himself in the woods and shattered his leg. Maybe he didn't cut trees as much after that, but he got healed up ok as far as I know. Then he had another forestry health hazard - he developed skin cancer on his face. Papa's always had dark, leathery skin from the sun. I remember being worried, but he was treated and good as new. He's always had a terrible, rattling cough, but it never seemed to slow him down.

Here comes the sad stuff...

Since he's 70th birthday, there's been various health problems that Papa has overcome. A few years ago (around the age of 75), Papa was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He underwent surgery and radiation, and it took it's toll. He had to travel a lot for treatment, and had to stay in Halifax. Then he stayed with relatives for a few months until he got back on his feet. It took him a long time to heal, and afterward he was noticeably slower.

In Summer 2009, at the age of 77, Papa moved out of his country bungalow and into an apartment next to my parents' house. That was a sign that times were changing. All the woodworking machines were sold, everything was downsized. In November 2010, my parents, my brother, and Papa took a drive across Canada. Except for a trip in 2000 with my Dad and a great uncle, he had pretty much stopped his trips from Nova Scotia to Ontario. The 2010 trip would be his last. They visited me at grad school, and visited Papa's sister in Ontario. In December 2010, Papa moved into an independent-living apartment next to a nursing home, which was next to a hospital.

In May 2011 at age 79, Papa was diagnosed with lung cancer. We all feared the worse. He had so many encounters with different types of cancer, I felt like I knew it'd happen eventually. He went for radiation therapy in Halifax, 2 hours away. He drove himself down on Sunday and back on Friday for 6 weeks all summer. I went home the week before he started treatment and saw him. When we were saying our good-byes and Papa asked when I'd be home next, I choked. My Dad told him my wedding was the next June, 11 months away. Papa completed his lung cancer treatment in August 2011.

Two weeks ago, on November 14th, 2011, Papa had a car accident. No one was physically hurt, but it was the catalyst that made Papa open up about the headaches, the dizziness, the light-headedness, and the vision problems that he's been having for weeks. He had also dropped a lot of weight. After spending a few days helping him with meals and self-care tasks, my Mom and her siblings knew something was wrong.

On Friday, November 25th, Papa went to the hospital and had a CT scan. He was told that he had 5 brain tumors. Saturday, he was moved to palliative care in the hospital and given drugs to shrink the tumors and ease his pain. Today, on Monday, November 28th, he was told that he has 1-3 months left.

Part of my heartaches because I wish I could be home. Part of me knows there's nothing I can do, and that this is a completely natural and expected process. Death is simply our final transition. I know he's being treated well at the hospital, and I know he's not suffering in pain, so that greatly comforts me. But the bigger, more important comfort, is being able to reflect on all the great stories and memories I have with my Papa.

Death is sad because it's loss. I know I will be losing him, and I will be losing future moments with him. But I find comfort in the fact that I have known him for 28 years, and he's been a really awesome grandfather to me. He's done all the grandfatherly things, and I have tons of happy, warm, grounding memories.

I didn't write this post to solicit sympathy because my Papa is dying. I wrote this post to celebrate and share all the wonderful moments I'd had with him, and to honour him. He's been an absolutely great Papa, and he deserves to have a written record of that preserved for all of you to see.

We all find peace in our own ways. Mine was choosing to write this piece to honour him. I chose to honour him now, while he's still living, and seeing, and hearing, because once he's gone he won't know I've said all these embarrassing and flattering things. And if I can elicit a few final smirks on his face it'll be worth it.

Attawapiskat

2011-11-23T07:17:00.003-05:00

Say it. Attawapiskat. Remember it.

What is it? It's the Aboriginal Community in Northern Ontario which has been ignored by the rest of Canada for years. This past week, my buddy in BC posted an article from the Huffington Post on Attawapsikat. Charlie Angus, a Member of Parliament actually went and visited the community and was so appalled at what was happening that he wrote a column for the Huffington Post and provided this video:

I have written before on this topic when I attended a talk during my university Aboriginal Awareness Week. However, after searching the internet for more information about this northern community, I couldn't find anything. I couldn't find news articles, or blog posts, or government websites or anything concerning the community. It was as if it didn't exist - that the problem didn't exist.

I didn't want to base my knowledge completely on one talk, one on person's opinion. I know that when people are motivated politically, the facts can be bent and skewed. So I was really at a loss as to what to make for the situation.

But Charlie Angus's article has completely cleared that up. The Huffington Post article can be found here.

I want encourage you to read the article on the Huffington Post website. But I'm going to repost some essential parts of the article because you never know when or if the article will disappear from its current location. Again, all rights and credits go to Member of Parliament Charile Angus.

Here are some highlights:

"It's been three weeks since Attawapiskat First Nation took the extraordinary step of declaring a state of emergency. Since then, not a single federal or provincial official has even bothered to visit the community.

No aid agencies have stepped forward. No disaster management teams have offered help.

Meanwhile temperatures have dropped 20 degrees and will likely drop another 20 or 25 degrees further in the coming weeks. For families living in uninsulated tents, makeshift cabins and sheds, the worsening weather poses serious risk.

Two weeks ago I travelled to this community on the James Bay coast to see why conditions had become so extreme that local leaders felt compelled to declare a state of emergency.

I spoke with one family of six who had been living in a tiny tent for two years. I visited elderly people living in sheds without water or electricity. I met children whose idea of a toilet was a plastic bucket that was dumped into the ditch in front of their shack.

Dr. John Waddell from the Weeneebayko Health Authority was in the community during this tour. He was emphatic that conditions had deteriorated to the point that an emergency situation was unfolding. Families are facing "immediate risk" of infection, disease and possible fire from their increasingly precarious conditions. Dr. Elizabeth Blackmore repeated this message of immediate risk just this past Friday at a press conference at Queen's Park.

You'd think that a medical warning from a provincial health authority would move government into action. Think again. When it comes to the misery, suffering and even the death of First Nations people, the federal and provincial governments have developed a staggering capacity for indifference.

Try to imagine this situation happening in anywhere else in this country. We all remember how the army was sent into Toronto when the mayor felt that citizens were being discomforted by a snowstorm. Compare that massive mobilization of resources with the disregard being shown for the families in Attawapiskat.

The indifference speaks volumes about the underlying reasons for this crisis. Such a state of affairs doesn't just happen. The collapse in Attawapiskat can't be blamed on bad local leadership, misplaced monies or the possibility that such communities are simply unsustainable. Attawapiskat is a community that has done its best to work with the meagre resources provided by Aboriginal Affairs.

What we are witnessing is the inevitable result of chronic under-funding, poor bureaucratic planning and a discriminatory black hole that has allowed First Nations people to be left behind as the rest of the country moves forward.

Take education for example. Not only are First Nations children systemically denied access to comparable levels of funding and resources available to non-Aboriginal students but, in the case of Attawapiskat, they don't even have access to a school. It's been 12 years since the community's grade school was shut down because children were being exposed to dangerous levels of benzene from the badly contaminated ground. Frustrated grade school children finally took matters into their own hands. They were led by 13-year-old Shannen Koostachin who launched a national campaign to shame the government into action. This fight for equal education has gone all the way to the United Nations. What other Canadian kid has to fight, organize and beg for access to clean and equitable schools?

The province of Ontario has the responsibility to ensure equitable standards for education, as well as water, fire safety and building codes citizens in Ontario. And yet, when the families of Attawapiskat look to the province for help, they are continually told that they are a federal "responsibility."

Ironically, the province doesn't take the same attitude when it comes to the immense wealth coming out of Attawapiskat's back yard. The De Beers Victor Mine is the richest diamond mine in the Western world. Just recently, the province upped the royalty tax at the mine from nine per cent to 11 per cent to ensure an even higher return for the provincial coffers. Not a dime of provincial royalty money comes back to help the community with infrastructure or development.

As for the mine itself, De Beers has signed an IBA (Impact Benefit Agreement) providing for training and job opportunities. Thanks to the provisions of the Indian Act, workers who may want to build their own house in Attawapiskat are unable to do so because they can't get a mortgage on a reserve. Even if there was a possibility of new housing for the densely overcrowded shantytown, the province hasn't bothered to turn over any land for new development. No wonder that people with jobs are leaving and heading south -- they can't stay in their home communities.

And then there's the federal government; over the last number of years, they have consistently turned a blind eye to the growing infrastructure crisis. In fairness to the new Minister John Duncan, he has committed $500,000 as an emergency measure. But given the scope of the problem, this is little more than a Band-Aid.

Presently there are five families living in tents; 19 families living in sheds without running water; 35 families living in houses needing serious repair; 128 families living in houses condemned from black mould and failing infrastructure; 118 families living with relatives (often 20 people in a small home); there are 90 people living in a construction trailer. There's a need for 268 houses just to deal with the immediate backlog of homelessness.

The $500,000 commitment from the federal government will, at most, help repair three or four abandoned and derelict buildings that would otherwise be torn down.

Fortunately, average Canadians don't share this level of bureaucratic indifference. Since the state of emergency was declared, my office has been inundated with people wanting to help. I have been contacted by school kids trying to raise money for supplies; trades people who want to come north to help in a rebuilding project; average Canadians who simply ask -- what can I do?

As inspiring as this is, it's clear that nothing will really change until there is action from the officials whose job it is to ensure that these citizens of Ontario and Canada are treated with a basic level of respect and dignity. The cold winter winds are hitting James Bay. People may die if nothing is done. In a country as rich and as just as Canada this is simple unacceptable.

Does reading that change your opinion of Canada? Of our access to education?

This morning, CBC posted an article on children's poverty and mentioned that our Aboriginal children are living in disgusting scenarios.

Regardless if its the federal government's fault, the provincial government's fault, their parents' fault, or the band chief's fault, the children are still living in these appalling states. Why aren't we doing anything about it?

Again, I want to apologize to the Huffington Post if this goes against their copyright policy. I feel that Charlie Angus's words are so important that they need to be distributed as widely as possible. I give all credit to HP for posting this article for me and others to access. I have reposted parts of the article out of respect and for educational purposes, not for monetary gain or to take credit for anything I haven't done.

Love, Misandry & Exclusion

2011-11-16T22:13:00.006-05:00

Sorry Facebook friends, I'm doing it again. I just received a (well intentioned) message from a female facebook friend. Here was the message:

Place a heart (♥) on your wall without comment, only a heart. Then send this message to all your friends - only the women. Next, place a heart on the wall of the person who sent this message to you. And if someone asks you why you have so many hearts on your wall, do not reply. This is only for women to remember that this is the week to remember and care about breast cancer. And that we should always think about it. To make a heart, type < then the number 3 without a space.

Why are men excluded?

If this is to raise awareness then what is up with the secrecy?

Do you really think the Canadian Cancer Society or the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation would use this as a legit activity?

This is a hoax, and it's a ridiculous one. It was made by a random nobody, who just wanted to see if they could make it go viral. It's not connected to any legit Breast Cancer Charity. It's an ineffective way of "raising awareness." It is mainly designed to make men (and women who have yet to receive the message) curious and feel excluded.

And it's already been done. In January 2011, girls and women starting posting their bra colors for the same terrible reason. I wrote about it here Social Exclusion ... for cancer? and when I broke the secrecy and told men and others what the deal was, people got pissed at me.

Mocking men with little hearts or trying to be sly about getting their attention is a ridiculous way to address a serious illness. Check out my previous post Misandry is Hip? if this topic makes you furious.

I don't care. This nonsense is stupid.

I'm a PC

2011-11-15T21:11:00.005-05:00

Don't get me wrong - I think Steve Jobs was an awesome guy. When I read about his creative and inspirational ways, I do admire the guy.

But aside from HyperStudios, I never liked those "old school" Macs. And once Apple products became "good," they were more expensive and less accessible than PC products made by various sources (HP, Dell, Toshiba, etc).

And once Apple became "good" it wasn't the "underdog" anymore, but it marketed itself like it was. Like buying Apple products was participating in the counterculture, or being hip. If you like Apple products because you like them - fine. But don't buy them to be trendy or edgy. My Dad has an iPhone4. While he's pretty awesome, he is definitely not trendy or edgy.

I took a personality quiz online a few weeks ago. Supposedly it matched your lifestyle to consumer goods. Because of my choices, it said I was clearly in the Mac category. When I looked to see what responses would put you PC category, it was things like being pro-capitalist, anti-free thinking, pro-segregation, anti-art and anti-social justice. It really pissed me off that Mac has a reputation of being the computer system for the left-wing activists. But it does explain why all my friends have iphones.

I maintain my preference for PC products because I like the way they work. Windows 7 (and even Windows XP) do not crash or get error terms like good 'ol Win98. My HP laptop has a replace-able battery (Macbooks don't). Software is more likely to be compatible with a Microsoft operating system, and most university projectors/labs/printers are more compatible with PCs. I hear that Macs are more user friendly if you're not a super computer geek, but also less customizable and modifiable for that same reason.

And then of course, there's a stellar ad for Windows 7. I love this commercial. It kinda explains my whole world view towards this wedding thing. It's why I've said from the start that all I wanted was our immediate families and a justice of the peace.

Enjoy.

I have heard comments that Apple users have a hard time posting comments on my blog. A few of you have contacted me via other websites to tell me about this. I'm not censoring or blocking comments. There's been something fishy going on with Blogger for over 18 months now, check out my previous writings about Apple here and you'll see it's an on going issue. Please back up your comments before submitting. If you have difficulty submitting a comment, email it to me, and I will post it and then respond to it.

Mine vs. Ours

2011-11-10T21:17:00.004-05:00

I had the incredibly strong urge last night and today to run around and tell people I got married. Because I felt like I had. And in a way, I think I sorta did.

Basically, my fiance and I now have a joint banking account. It was quite the procedure! We were there, at the desk, with the dude, and the computer and the paper work, for like 50 minutes. Or more.

And it felt like a wedding ceremony of sorts. Instead of vows of "do you take this person," there were, "what do you plan to use this account for?" and "do you agree to these limits on your daily limits?" Instead of a sermon, there was reading of the rules such as, "You will have equal access. Only one person needs to approve transactions. If one of you should die, the full value and rights of the account fall to the other person." And then, there was a frigging ton of paperwork. It was so ritualistic, my fiance would sign the top line, I'd sign the bottom, and hand them in. I seriously wanted some wedding music playing in the background. It felt huge.

My mom didn't get it. She said, "I have a joint account with your brother - I'm not married to my son." I tried to explain - she has biological and legal ties to her son. Now, I have legal ties to my fiance. Whoa. It's trippy.

I told him he was pretty much my husband now. He didn't quite believe me.

Ever since we've been serious (and I've known he's good with money), I've considered mine to be "futuristicly ours." I don't mind paying for movies or food or parking, because I consider it as coming from our futurely joint pool of money. But it's also still *mine* so I can buy random trinkets on ebay or fast food at school, or Sims 3 expansion packs without his approval or consent. So I've been using my own money for "me" and "us" for a while now.

But now there's money that is truly *ours* and that's such a weird concept. I don't think I've ever jointly owned anything. I mean, I love socialism and sharing. But there's such a new and interesting set of rules to consider. When we go to the movies will it just come from there? How much should we each contribute to it? And which account do I use to pay off my credit card?

The tentative plan we've proposed is to use the joint stuff for our "needs" and common interests, and our individual accounts for our "wants" or non-essentials. So my video games and kobo books come from my individual account, and someday our rent payments will come from the joint account.

But it's so cool. There's money that's not mine, and not his, but "ours." And I pretty much feel married. Even though we don't live together.

(We also "share" a picture frame, a serving tray, and a quesadilla maker, which were engagement presents (and a prize we jointly won). But we just split those between our households for now.)

Wisdom

2011-11-08T21:06:00.005-05:00

So what is the different between wisdom and cleverness, or smarts?

When I teach about intelligence and the different theories of intelligence, it makes me wonder if wisdom is more like Sternberg's Practical intelligence, or maybe Cattell's crystalized intelligence? Cleverness is more like a skill that you can exercise and improve, but wisdom is more like a vantage point of accumulated knowledge that just comes with life. Or maybe it's the patience to calmly examine a situation, or to gain a new perspective.

When we say, "I was smart, but I wasn't wise," it reminds me of Piaget's concepts of cognitive assimilation and accommodation. Being smart could imply that you know lots of things, but you haven't reorganized your thought processes to make the most use of them yet - and when you do you will harness the wisdom of your knowledge.

Or maybe it's all just rootless semantics. But when I think of smart, I think of "book smart" the skinny, kid with thick glasses and the head full of trivia. When I think of wise, I think of general insight and knowledge into the world. And an old dude. In particular, I think of Michangelo's depiction of God on the Sistene's Chapel mixed with Socrates standing under an olive tree on a hillside. In a toga. I just picture this wrinkled, gnarly old guy, and every line on his face tells a tale.

When I was in elementary school, we were always read stories at carpet time. I remember a lot of folk stories or fables. I can't keep the straight, but at least a few had the "Old Wise Woman" or "Old Wise Man." When I was 6, I wanted to grow up and be the Old Wise Woman of the village. It seemed like a great job. In the story we were told, she basically sat on a carpet in the center of the village, and the protagonist would visit her and ask important questions and she would respond. Who wouldn't want to do that?

Now I realize that monks and gurus probably don't get paid that much to sit on carpets and give out advice. But if I ever go to India or Tibet or somewhere with an old wise person I would love to ask them questions.

And I'm still on my pursuit of wisdom. There might not be anymore philosophers in togas teaching on hills under olive trees, but it's that noble image that inspires me in the world of academia and makes me passionate about teaching. I don't want to just teach students "facts" I want to inspire them to "think" and discover on their own.

I am in love with my quest for wisdom. I like to puzzle and question the big things in life and probe and contemplate everything I can wrap my mind around. And whenever I play Zelda, wisdom my favorite part of the tri-force.

So, I'm kinda sad about the notion of loosing my wisdom teeth. I already lost my upper wisdom teeth in 2009. On Friday of this week, my two bottom wisdom teeth will be removed. I know it's just a name, but it still feels weird - especially since I've had them a while now.

Oh well, I'm hoping the banana baby food, grape jello, chocolate milkshakes, and constant attention and care from my fiance will make it worth it. But I'm definitely not looking forward to seeing myself with chipmunk cheeks!

Purpose of Poppy

2011-11-06T09:25:00.002-05:00

I turned 28 last week. I have been writing on a public blog since I was 24 - a month before starting my PhD program. Now that I've been ranting about lots of topics, I have a digital record of my growth and change in numerous areas. For example - my opinion of the Remembrance Day Poppy.

Last year, I wrote about my disdain for the Yellow Ribbon campaign, but my proud and loyal support for Red Poppies. You can read that original post here.

Maybe I'm becoming more radical with age. A year ago, I was pretty hesitant towards the White Poppy Movement despite agreeing with the message. But after November 11th, 2010, when I started to read the media coverage of Remembrance Day, I was angered. The media coverage did not focus on what I believed was the meaning of the day. Instead, CBC, CTV, and various Sun newspapers steered away from commenting on paying respect, remembering sacrifice, etc. They all wrote articles attacking the White Poppy Campaign.

CTV posted several articles on the topic - here is the link to one. And here is the link to the CBC article.

I read lots of reader comments on these news websites. From what I can gather, people believe the white poppies are disrespectful and anti-soldier and anti-military. So on the day of respecting the commitment of the military, the white poppy folks are essentially saying, "We don't like you soldiers, we're not thankful for your sacrifice." Ok. If you believe that, I can understand why you would feel negative towards the white poppies.

But why do people believe that? When you go to the official website of the original White Poppy Campaign in the Uk you can read about the history and find out for yourself that these white poppies were not intended that way. According to the website, the white poppy "symbolizes the belief that there are better ways to resolve conflicts than killing strangers." The red poppy pays respect to soldiers, the white poppy pays respect to civilians lost to war. The red poppy remembers the dangers and sacrifice of war and the white poppy hopes that they are not repeated.

If unauthorized fringe groups have been using them to attack soldiers, then that's horrible.

However, if individuals are wearing white poppies to symbolize that they don't support certain military campaigns, this is different. Symbolizing that you believe conflict can or should be resolved through non-violent means is not the same as attacking soldiers. If we all became sheep, and did whatever our elected representatives wanted from us, then what were those soldiers fighting for?

My grandfather was a Canadian prisoner of war in World War II, so my point of reference is always WWII and Germany. Adolf Hitler was an elected official. The German people had their freedom taken away. They were coerced into joining the ranks and turning upon their neighbours or dying. Canada and the Allies fought for many reasons, including maintaining our freedom.

So basically, I don't understand why the Legion or "veteran groups" who represent those who fought for our freedom would then attempt to take away our right to dissent, and oppose, and criticize. Especially when this "criticism" takes the form of wearing a white flower to symbolize peace.

But what really got my mind stirring was when I read that the Canadian Legion was considering taking legal action against the white poppy groups. It's one thing to be in disagreement with someone else's perspective - it's another thing to try and shut down and take away their right to have that perspective. But the Legion attempted to "shut down" the sale of White Poppies in PEI, and was going to take legal action against the sellers of these poppies.

Why does the Legion have the right to regulate the sale of White Poppies? Again, the white poppies symbolize non-violent conflict resolution, and remembering civilians lost in war. Hearing this news made me skeptical of the motives of the Canadian Legion.

This year, Canada and some other countries started bombing Libya. I consider myself to be a pacifist, but not an absolute pacifist. I believe in physical mediation when you are being directly attacked, or when it can be used to prevent genocide - but only after all diplomatic and non-violent strategies have been exhausted.

I personally have never agreed with the combat mission in Afghanistan, especially since it started out as a peacekeeping mission and then we changed to a combat mission to impress the USA - not because it was the morally correct thing to do.

But Libya was different. In March, I posted a blog entry describing why I thought interference in Libya was needed. I could accept it, because I believed our mission was justified and would prevent civilian causalities. Of course, there were tons of causalities, and now that it's over, I'm waiting for the smoke to clear to learn what the consequences of our military action will be. But I'm not anti-military. I believe we need a military, especially for causes like this one.

I believe our military has to be trained well, and supported, and have access to materials and equipment necessary to perform duties. However, the overpriced fighter jets, nuclear submarines, and other things Peter MacKay wanted to buy really makes me hesitate. We should support military, but it should never be at the cost of our health care, or education systems.

And then of course, Osama Bin Laden and Maummar Gaddafi were captured and killed by American or Western Allies in the past year. *sigh* I realize that both of these individuals were responsible for many horrible actions, and the deaths of many. I realize they both had the potential to cause more death and destruction if they were allowed to live. However, taking the life of another human being, is not something that should ever be celebrated. The old school public lynchings or the more recent televised hanging of Saddam Hussein are acts of humanity at it's lowest. The public responses to the deaths of Bin Laden and Gaddafi turned my stomach and completely grossed me out.

And then, the Canadian Legion took legal action against another veteran's group. That's right. A pro-military, pro-veterans, non-commercial, non-profit group has started using a large logo with a small poppy included in the complex logo, and the Legion could not tolerate that. Some are saying that the Legion has to take action to prevent their trademark, so that counterfeit dollar store crap doesn't show up on the market. But along with many CBC readers, I think it just shows that the Legion is greedy and jealous and has their priorities mixed up. I mean, aren't they supposed to serve veterans - not attack them?

So this put me over the edge. I used to get a lot of joy out of buying poppies, and talking to the Legion members selling them. I used to walk down streets and hallways, admiring the numbers of others who also wore poppies. I used to criticize or judge others who didn't.

But now, I can't give money to the Legion. I care about veterans, I care about soldiers, I respect what they did for my country. But I'm worried that the Legion is corrupt and doesn't have the best interests of veterans, and soldiers (and the Canadian people) at heart. I don't want to use the word boycott, I have many (and I mean many) family members who are in the Canadian Armed Forces, or who are members of the Legion. But much like a labour union which is not taking action in the best interest of it's workers, I feel like the Legion isn't doing what's best for it's members.

And morally, I don't agree. I can't agree. Being more concerned with a trademarked symbol than striving for peace or supporting families of veterans is not something I could ever agree with.

So not only am I growing fonder and fonder of this White Poppy idea, I absolutely cannot bring myself to buy and wear a red poppy. I don't support the Legion, I don't support Peter Mackay's fighter jets, I don't support celebrating the deaths of our enemies, I don't support the line of In Flander's Field that says, "Take up our quarrel with the foe." (I never even noticed that line until last year at the campus Remembrance Day ceremony. I was grossed out. Why are we promoting vendetta systems?)

I'm not alone in my poppy changing status. The White Poppy movement might be under heavy attack in Canada, but it's growing and growing in the UK. Earlier today, I came across this blog post by Robert Steadman entitled, Why I Won't Wear a Red Poppy.

So now what do I do? I agree with the message behind a white poppy, but that message is ruined if wearing a white poppy will offend or incite anger in others. If it was recognized as a symbol of peace and remorse from war, I would proudly wear a white poppy. But given that people I care about might misinterpret the symbolism, I just don't have the gall to do it. Yet.

This year, I'm going poppy-less. It's more of a lack of message than a message. But until things become clearer, it's the only thing I can do with a clear conscious.

No Bridal Shower Please

2011-11-05T14:23:00.008-04:00

I know I have mentioned it in my previous posts concerning weddings in general and in planning my own wedding. But apparently not everyone knows, or not everyone is listening.

I don't want a bridal shower.

I don't want a bachelorette party.

I just want to get married.

If you know me, you should know I'm not a typical girl. I have my feminine moments. But I'm not a girly girl. From age 9 to 19, most of my friends were guys. My closest female friends tend to be either very tomboyish, or very intellectual and those are the attributes we bond over.

In addition to writing blog posts about how I'm critical of the traditional wedding industry, I have also written posts about my criticisms of gender roles. In my previous post called Dressing it Up I wrote about gender conformity and I included the following excerpt:

I remember when my sister was married 4 years ago. At the time, (at the age of 22) I had never taken responsibility for my own cooking or cleaning. I strongly disliked anything domestic and wanted nothing to do with it. When I found out that all the bridal shower gifts were going to be cooking/cleaning related, I thought it was incredibly lame and proclaimed that I would never want something like that thrown in my honour. A relative looked at me and said, "Do you want us to give you hammers and tools?" and then looked at my mom and said, "You better get her straightened out."

My sister's wedding is now over 5 years ago, and I'm 7 months away from my wedding. Yes, I have started to become more comfortable with domestic work, BUT that's been due to living on my own for several years. I am starting to learn to bond with my skillet, but I've have never cooked with fancy fancy things like food processors or auto mixers, and I wouldn't really know where to start or how to fit them into my lifestyle.

I understand that a new marriage and a new household requires lots of household things. My fiance and I went and picked out items for our registry last weekend. We spent 3 hours and picked out lots of stuff. But it was us together that did it, not me alone. I'm fine with people buying us things for the kitchen. I'm offended at the thought of people buying me things for the kitchen.

Just because I am the female does not mean I am more inclined to do these stereotypically feminine domestic tasks. I grew in a town where that was the case in most families, and I hated it. I wanted out. I went to university to get a career so I wouldn't be a housewife. I'm offended and bothered when people try to give me unsolicited housewife training. It makes me angry. I am fine with being responsible for my own home, I am fine with working with my significant other to share the burden of labour, but I am opposed to people giving the gifts to me rather than us because I'm the woman.

If it's a gift for our new home, give it to both of us. We picked out the registry together, and we'll be sharing in domestic labour.

If it's a gift for me, then give me something I will enjoy and like. My interests don't include kitchen gadgets. I'm not a one dimensional female. I especially don't want to sit around in a room full of older women, telling me how to be a wife. I would not consider that something nice done in my honor - I would consider that torture.

I especially do not want a "recipe shower" in which guests bring recipes for me to use instead of gifts. That is such an explicit form of gender conformity training, it really makes my skin crawl.

I can't emphasize this enough. This gender pressure really, actually, bothers me. I was going to dress up as a Stepford Wife for Halloween just to express my angst and frustration at these stereotypes. I mean, do either of these two pictures resemble anything about my personality?

I didn't think so!

As far as the bachelorette party goes, I'm less angry about the concept but completely and udderly disinterested. I don't enjoy (I rather strongly dislike) those parties in which people appear to be so intensely sexually repressed that they have to decorate everything with penis and phallic references. I don't need sexual cartharsis. Plus, I'm completely disinterested in binge drinking, and I actually can barely tolerate 2 glasses of wine anymore. I also disagree with the notion of partying really hard one last time before you "give up your freedom." I love my fiance, and I'm excited for my life with him, and I don't think I need to "partyhard" one last time. I would be open to spending time with my friends and taking in an activity that my fiance is less interested in - like a roller coaster, a bacon wrapped scallop, or a high energy political protest. But again, I would be offended if the nature of the event was based solely on gender roles, and not on personality preferences or other (more meaningful) characteristics. So I do not want a traditional bachelorette party.

Basically, what I'm saying is please consider me a whole person. Just because I'm getting married does not mean I want to be consider a female and nothing but a female. When people don't know me well, and just know that I'm a 28 year old female, then I understand why they might be inclined to use gender and age norms to estimate my preferences. I'm not offended if it's done with innocent intentions.

But for those people who are closest to me - please, please please. Do not give me a bridal shower. To my parents, siblings, and in-laws, you should know that I'm not a typical girl and I don't enjoy the uuber feminine. To my neighbours and aunts who have known me my whole life, you should know that doesn't suit me as well.

When other people have weddings and events, I conform to their preferences. When my really feminine friends have really feminine bridal showers, I can put on the dress and blend in. When I got to Orthodox Jewish weddings, I try my best to be observant and respectful of what they would appreciate. So, I would appreciate if others were respectful of me, and paid attention to my preferences and personality and interests.

So please, can we drop this topic now?

7 Billion Pumpkins

2011-10-31T07:46:00.005-04:00

It's Halloween!

Happy Halloween! Happy Pagan Day of the fabric between this day and the other being thin. Happy day of chocolate and candies, and dogs in costumes. Happy day after the weekend of crazy parties. Happy day of the spooky movies and practical jokes.

Happy day of 7 billion humans?

Aside from being Halloween, today is the day that the human population will reach (and surpass) 7 billion people alive at the same time.

The media coverage and the online commentary on this is split. Some people are celebrating. The News was at a hospital in India, congratulating the 31 babies born every hour, announcing that they were symbolically the 7th billion baby. At the same time, you have those saying we should not be celebrating, because we have a huge overpopulation problem and its just getting worse.

There are some people out there (a lot of them are nonreligious and secular) who believe that we should put a cap on birth rates because of the overpopulation concern. I've read comments on blogs like FriendlyAtheist in which users (not Hermanta) say that you should consider adopting as a priority over having a biological child so that you won't add to the problem. People say you shouldn't have a large family because then you'll add to the carbon footprint.

To them, I say, the liberal handwringing has gone to far. If we keep the human population down to help humanity - what humanity are we helping? If you don't have kids so the earth will be a better place for the next generation, that next generation won't contain your DNA. If everyone adopts that mindset, then the smarter, more altruistic people will literally die out.

Here's my opinion: all human lives are equal. White people living in huge 20 room houses in Canada with only one child should not be finger wagging the mother in Indian with 8 kids. Educated women who waited too long to have kids should not be criticizing the choices of other women who had families when they were young. Giving poor people free condoms will not get them out of poverty.

And people should not be apathetic to those who die in natural disasters. I'm disgusted at how many times I've heard people mutter things about "population control" regarding the disasters in Haiti, and the Famine in eastern Africa.

Your life is not worth more than the life of another. Sure, there was an Israeli soldier who was swapped with over a thousand Gazans in a prisoner exchange, but that's a revolting result of politics.

The innate beauty and wonder and potential is equal in us all. We should not be paranoid about the overpopulation in and of itself. It's not the number of people that is the problem - the experts say that as child mortality rates decline, families in developing nations will shrink and have already done so. The world population is estimated to peak at 9 billion. And all those comics showing the earth so crowded it can't fit us? Right now, all 7 billion of us could stand shoulder to shoulder and only fill half of Prince Edward Island.

If we learn to work together, and care about each other, the number of us will not be a problem. Sure, some self-entitled pricks out there might have realize they all can't have McMansions. And we really should organize a better system of distribution of food and resources.

As the CBC's character Red Green used to say, "We're all in this together." But no one has to withhold from having kids just so someone around the world can have a bunch.

For a more technical and science-y rant on this, click here.

Growing Up

2011-10-29T10:22:00.006-04:00

Sometimes I feel ageless. I like socializing with adults older than 60 as much as I like socializing with adults between 20-25 years of age. I get called an old lady at heart, I feel like a stressed out 30 something at times, and I am probably the stereotypical "young at heart" person in many other ways. I watch cartoons - not to be ironic but because I like them. I still love the toy aisle at Zellers. Anything colorful, magical, imaginative totally captures my attention like it did when I was kid. I play the Sims - which is essentially an electronic doll house. I get excited and wound up over thing other adults find childish. I've been able to do this while maintaining a certain level of "professionalism" when it's needed - in academia and in various work/volunteer settings.

As a developmental researcher, when I look at Erikson's stages of psychosocial development, I feel like I'm in most the categories at once. Erikson believed that we moved through these stages, and during each stage we over came some drama or conflict or developmental milestone that led us to either have the virtue, or the vice. Here's the chart for your convenience. (Click to make it bigger)

According to his theory, Erikson proposed that if you did not resolve your developmental milestone in a healthy way (e.g., your mother abandons you as an infant so you don't learn to trust, your first grade teacher makes fun of you so you don't learn to feel competent), then you will not only pick up the vice for that stage, but you will battle with this stage of development. You may have trouble moving beyond to the next stages, or you may always regress back to the stage until you are able to resolve it.

I might be passive and shy and guilty as hell (which relates to stage 3) but I do have hope and autonomy and competence, a sense of identity and love/intimacy. However, I continue to develop these things. Not just in the background sort of way. I'm constantly growing in a self-discovering way in each of these dimensions. What's more interesting, is that the Stage 7 (age 26-64) stuff has been on my mind since I was 5, but in a more purposeful way since I was 16. "How can I use my life to help others?" was something I always thought about. Stage 8 - the existential mind trip about the universe and life after death is something I obviously spend a lot of time on - that's how this blog first got started.

So when I look at Erikson's chart, I feel like I'm all over it at once. I'm not trying to discredit his theory - I really like it. And in the past few years, the Early Adulthood stuff has been the most relevant and important to me. But overall, I feel like I don't fit in the category of age most of the time. I don't know what it's supposed to be like to act my age.

However, I do know I'm growing up - or going through some major transitions. My birthday is coming up next week and I'll be 28 years old. I look forward to that age, because women who want to stay young forever always joke about being 28, and Sally from 3rd Rock in the Sun said in the premiere episode of that series "I think I'm around my prime. I must be 28."

It definitely has the potential to be the prime of my life. If everything goes as planned, I will finish my PhD, get married, and get my first real job (or possibly a postdoc) in the next year. Those things don't just happen by themselves - I'm learning how insane it is to balance all of this.

My weeks are spent scouting out interesting job postings - whether academic, government, or non-profit in nature. I went to a seminar this week to help prepare for the academic job search. I will be writing government recruitment tests in a few weeks to be eligible for federal work. I'm also working as a teaching assistant - I'll be a contract instructor after Christmas so I need to start building my syllabus for that. I'm supervising an undergraduate honours thesis student, and I'm trying to write and submit two first-author manuscripts. Plus, I do have to analyze my doctoral dissertation data and start writing that up so I can (you know) graduate.

I'm trying to plan and coordinate a wedding from 1500km away from where it will happen. I'm dealing with vendors and businesses that are not used to corresponding via email and fax machines. Simple things like renting table clothes requires 6 emails, a phone call, spending a morning fixing my printer/scanner (after two trips to Staples). And then we still need to find a chuppah, in an area where most people don't know what a chuppah is. I'm mid-way through the process of editing the ceremony - the officiant stuck some preachy religious poems in in the middle to reflect "my half" not knowing that I'm secular and so is most of my family. Trying to find pretty, appropriate, secular wedding poetry that is not Shakespeare is actually sort of hard. Thankfully, we've already worked out some of the interfaith/interclass dilemmas, but there's still a heck of a lot to do.

Of course, I am getting married to a person, and we do plan to live together as newly weds. He also just started on the job search market. We're trying to coordinate who's looking in what cities, and strategize how we'll relocate together. Do we attempt to get an apartment a few months before the wedding, exactly at the wedding, or just wait until one of us gets a good job in another city?

Despite criticisms all around, we (I) made the decision if we would have a wedding registry and what store it would be with. We picked a chain that's accessible to both families and has stores Canada wide. Today's battles include, how the heck do we set up a wedding registry if we don't know where we'll be living at the time of the wedding. Won't my side want to bring the gifts to the party - which might be across the country from our new home. Also on the table - setting up a joint bank account when currently we have very different types of individual accounts with two very different institutions.

I think it's a mute point to emphasize that this is stressful. At the same time, I know it's going to be a year I look back on with lots of memories - much like I remember my last year of high school or my last year of undergrad. And it's totally completely worth it. Yes, it's hectic and busy, but I love my work, I enjoy PhD and academic life immensely, so school/work stuff is busy but fun.

And I love my fiance even more than all that, so all the little complicated stuff, and the diplomatic strategies we employ to appease our families, and the giving in when we disagree on things is completely worth it. He is sweet, considerate, emotionally supportive, insanely adorable, and likes to kick my butt at chess. There really is no one else like him, so if he's my reward at the end of this year of stress I am totally thrilled for that.

Of course, that means he gets a crazy, kid at heart who sings LMFAO while she plays chess. Thankfully, he thinks it's cute when I make the gold queen shuffle.

Crime, Poverty, & Music

2011-10-26T11:34:00.005-04:00

I grew up in a working-class, rural area, and I now live in a large, government city. In both places, I lived close to pockets of poverty (or relative poverty). It's a common thing for neighbours to be drug traffickers, the kid down the street to go to juvi, the people across the hall to go to jail, etc.

When I was a teenager, there was a shooting and a murder in a trailer court close to my house. Once some teenagers threw a flare gun on our front yard and we thought they put the place on fire. When my little brother was growing up, his peers dropped out of high school and called themselves a gang. Stabbings and shootings over people be shortchanged drug money was occasional but not unheard of.

I am currently located in a region of social housing projects. Although my building is not part of the projects, most tenants are on social assistance for disabilities or child welfare. Most tenants are single women who have boyfriends in the drug trade. There was a shooting in my building once, there have been at least 4 stabbings within a block of my building in recent years, and there's robberies and muggings in my neighbourhood in the spring and summer months.

Both locations have populations of people of color, and although my current location is primarily populated by new immigrants - most of the delinquents and trouble makers I know are white.

And that's interesting. Given that when I *think* of music about gangs, drug crimes, and living in impoverished areas, I think of the following two African American songs:

I'm not trying to say there is no white songs about ghetto life - there is Eminem, but his music takes on a slightly different tone.

From a sociological perspective, it's as if ethnicity shapes our portrayal and our narrative on poverty. African American music about inner city poverty is about thriving and living day-to-day in the situation. White music about inner city poverty is about the triumph and escape. Coolio sings, "Will I live to be 24, the ways things are going I don't know." Eminem says at the end, "You can do anything you put your mind to."

Certainly, I feel like my white neighbours act and behave more with the zeigeist of Coolio's music. They're desperate and frustrated and don't see a way out (at least the ones I talk to). The Eminem song doesn't seem to connect with them (possibly because Eminem is singing out himself rising up out of it). To me, the African American version is more validating. When Pras sings, "Some got hopes and dreams, we got ways and means," it might create a self-fulfilling prophecy so people don't think they can escape their situations, but it also empowers them in a way.

And given the popularity of these songs, I'm convinced that they are popular among music listeners regardless of ethnicity. But why do we characterize the popular poverty songs as almost exclusively an African American issue? And why nearly exclusively an urban issue?

What about people in rural areas? What songs of poverty, and drug-related violence do they have? I assume there are probably country western songs about drinking whiskey and using their shot guns. But do teens and young people seriously still listen to country music? The only thing that comes to my mind is this:

And this isn't really about hardship, at all. Although, Kid Rock does have that classic line, "I'm not straight out of Compton, I'm straight out the trailer."

And what message does this send as modeling behavior? There has been research on how African American musical is over representative of violence, drugs, sex, gangs, etc. And researchers have examined how this influences the "options" African American teens believe they have in life. But what about the reverse? What about the White teens living the middle of a drug traffickers circle, with nothing in the media to validate the experience? I guess that's why J-Rock from the Trailer Park Boys was accused of acting black.

Water Bottle Brain Fart

2011-10-18T16:14:00.003-04:00

I just had a brain fart. About water.

Bottled water is bad, mmmkay? Evil corporations steal access to this resource, then put it in toxic bottles, truck it around the world burning fossil fuels and then sell it to us with promising labels and high prices.

We've successfully demonized commodifying water. I like that a lot.

But sometimes, no matter how eco-friendly or granola crunchy you area, buying bottled water makes sense.

Example 1: When it's frikken hot outside, and tap water is non-chilled and non-quenching. Sure, maybe the library and the mall and the student centre have water fountains, but the refrigerated bottles is the perfect amount of degrees celsius cooler.

Example 2: When you out and about without your reusable container, and tap water won't cut it. I bring my reusable bottle in my backpack almost daily. I bring it in my big purse whenever I take that instead. But when I leave the house with my small purse, I leave the reusable water bottle at home. And then I always find myself in a meeting and feeling parched, or walking from point a to point b in the sun, or taking airplanes or buses or doing anything where balancing a cup or a glass of water would be extremely inconvenient. When you're without your reusable bottle, and you want water in a bottle (and not a cup or glass) then sometimes bottled water is the only that's gonna work.

Example 3: When you are traveling for a prolonged time to areas in which the local tap water is not safe. When you're staying at the resort in Mexico, sure you can fill up your reusable water bottle before you leave the resort, but you'll probably need more than that to drink for the entire day. And what happens if you want to go camping in the desert? You're gonna need to bring a crate of bottles.

Wouldn't it be nice if there was an eco-friendly, humanitarian-friendly, non-evil bottled water option? Like a bottled-water co-op, which provides bottled water from a local source (like regular city water). The water could be cooled and filtered and sold in lightweight BPA-free reusable bottles. It could also be sold in a degradable one-time-use container that would magically breakdown fast. Bottled water right now gets shipped all around then place and then sits on a shelf. This stuff wouldn't need a long shelf life since it's sourced locally. It could be bottled as needed in really truly eco-friendly containers (think fountain pop paper cup material maybe). Of course, it would be preferable to sell the water in the reusable container, so in addition to selling the bottled water, there could be "filling up" stations which offered just the water for much cheaper.

Now I know what you're thinking. If there was an eco-friendly, water co-op in a mall in Canada, no one would use it. There's free water in the mall fountains. Let's go back to the 3 examples of when bottled water is useful. Somewhere hot, where people travel, and the water is not safe to drink. Ummm, how about Venice?

In most of Italy, the water is perfectly fine to drink. And it tastes good. Italians like to drink bottled mineral water, or sometimes fizzy bottled water, but at restaurants in Rome, Tuscany, Sorrento and more, tap water is available for free. But in Venice, they will not serve tap water and instead beverages at restaurants start at 2.50 euros. It's 2.50 euros for a tiny, 400ml bottle of water. It's 4.50 or 5.50 euros for cola or soft drinks. I know, I was there. I read the menus.

So, this would be the perfect place to start. You'd get the water sourced as locally as possible, whether that meant 10km, 100km or more. You'd use a state-of-the-art filtering system. You'd pay a clerk to stand there and keep everything running smoothly, and you'd locate it right at the hub of the hot St. Mark's Square and the narrow streets with pricey restaurants. Oh, and give it a cool, Italian translation for Water Co-op. Acqua Cooperativa perhaps. Tourists would eat that up. Refilling station, biodegrading bottles, and bpa-free reusable bottles, and of course really cool, and nice water.

Of course, you don't want to become part of this "evil" commodifying of water. So, you keep it all non-profit. Pay the drivers and the water testers, and bottle manufacturers, the clerks, and the research team. Oh, and pay the city for your water bill (or municipality if you are taking the water from outside the city). Keep enough resources to keep the place looking nice, you don't want to be known as the ghetto-tastic water company. But put all available company proceeds back into the system of protecting water and protecting populations at-risk for loosing their rights to water. Team up with some NGOs and work on water-protection policies.

It would totally work. And then you could expand to other places or individual co-operatives could become organized using your model. And once the movement got big in Europe or Central America, it would probably take off in Canada just because anything foreign sounds exotic and superior.

And then the evil bottled water companies would disappear, but the good, socially-conscious people like me would still have an option to have water in a bottle if we need it. But by-and-large, the refilling stations would become the main focus.

The pricing would work differently depending upon the constrains of each location. Here in Canada the water could almost always come locally. You'd just need a tap, a clerk, a fridge and some bottles. I suppose you could make it coin operated and eliminate the clerk, and that would probably make it feasible.

But either way, that's my water brain fart.

Occupy Wall Street

2011-10-12T15:05:00.007-04:00

Life has been crazy, and I haven't been able to give current affairs a lot of attention. I've heard about this "Occupy Wall Street" thing in the USA for a few weeks. There's been tons of protests in the states lately. The extremists in the right-wing Tea Party are protesting, the extremists in the left-wing groups are protesting, moderates and everyday people are up in arms about the economy, and my mind just got saturated.

I mean, people rebelling against the Stock Market - yeah that's kinda cool. I mean, they might be crazy wingnuts with no momentum or membership base, but they made the news. And I can't honestly say I'm 100% against them, even if they were crazy nutcases.

Ever see that show Dharma & Greg, with the blue-blood, old-money lawyer and hippie new-age yoga teacher? On a few dimensions, I feel like that's my life sometimes. My mom goes to naturpaths, my Dad has tons of conspiracy theories about how to better run the town/province/country/world. My fiance is a capitalist who thinks of the stock market as a beneficial and smart way to earn money.

And I'd be Dharma.

I'm morally opposed to gambling for numerous reasons. One reason is that the money you "earn" by gambling was not "given" to you the same way an employer pays an employee for wage labor. Through poker, horse racing, etc., there's usually a level of trickery and slyness used to "earn" the money, so you benefit from deceiving others. 50/50 pools are slightly different, but in most cases people are not happy to give you their money. It's stained with bad karma.

If people wanted to "invest" in a company because they genuinely wanted to help a business (e.g., a friend's start-up business, a small restaurant recovering from a fire, a new initiative that they actually believed in), then I think that'd be an ok reason to invest in them. But from what I gather on all the stock market conversations I've been witness to, this is far far far from the reality. People don't care where their money is going into, just as long as they will profit, and most other people won't. Trade it there, swap it there, play a game so that the cards you're holding is more valuable when you trade 'em in. And then there's all that insane complicated stuff like betting against the system and essentially benefiting from a companies downfall. Sorry, but that's fucking evil.

If eating pork, or not wearing a hijab, or not washing your hands six times when you enter a temple, or not saying certain prayers before you go to bed or saying a certain three letter word can be considered morally wrong and evil by certain belief systems - then purposefully, and planning to financial benefit from others' business failures is completely and totally evil. Why do none of the major religions send people to Hell for that?

So yeah, I think there's a hell of a lot wrong with the capitalist system and the way that people benefit from trade and stocks. I'm not saying that the entire thing is completely inherently wrong and should be completely demolished, I don't feel that way. But there is certainly a lot that's fucked up about the capitalist system.

And that's just one small thing. I could dedicate my entire blog to writing in length about other reasons. Like how people will invest in things they are personally against just because they want to earn money. I know someone who is against tobacco usage, and against smoking and thinks it's stupid, but was considering investing in tobacco companies. They thought the companies would still do whatever they were going to do regardless of one person's investments. So because this person thought they were a small fish and couldn't make an impact, they were willing to make money off evil.

And maybe it's this small fish mentality that is the problem. Lately, everyone is so "anti-protester" and apathetic about voting because they feel they can't make a difference. And what happens? The people in power maintain their status quo and keep doing what they want because they are unchallenged.

The thing is, society doesn't have to be this way. If you open a dusty old sociology book and read about other social hierarchies in history, it hasn't always been 1% vs. 99% like it really is today. I'm not trying to go all Utopian, and I'm not trying to sound like a Communist (though I do admit I'm a social democrat).

But as the "Occupy Wall Street" movement gears up and comes to Canada this week, I'm starting to think that maybe these people are not entirely wingnuts. Maybe there's a good part of the message that we should all be hearing.

The photo at the top of this post is taken from CBC.ca. I would also like to end this post with a user comment on CBC by user Nix_ONeil:

People have a right to profits, but that can never be the result of disadvantaging anyone else, nor come at the expense of the well-being of the planet and its other inhabitants.

If our current version of capitalism is unable to correct itself and come back in line with what is best for the majority of people and the well-being of the planet, then it has no right to continue, and those that advocate on its behalf will need to be judged on their actions. This planet is not a playground for the privileged, it is a home for all people and all creatures equally - no one is exempt from respecting and honouring this simple, self-evident truth.

Peace.

The Mission

2011-10-10T21:04:00.007-04:00

I will eventually write about the 11 last days of my vacation. Yes, I feel guilty for not posting those yet. But I've been seriously intensely busy since I got back.

Right now, I'm going to blog about something different. It's Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving. It's the 6th Thanksgiving not in Nova Scotia with my family. I've done something special each year - once I went to my cousins, then I hosted a potluck, and then I went to 3 potlucks with friends.

This year, I did something completely different. I volunteered at a homeless shelter.

I've heard about it since I was a kid. Around Christmas, my Dad would always say (idealistically) that we should give up Christmas and just go volunteer at soup kitchens. I've heard people say over and over that they'd like to do it. I've never met one person that actually has. I've felt like it would be a great thing to do. I always wondered why I'd never do it.

Part of me was concerned over the clients and how aggressive they'd be. Part of me hates cooking and really hates doing my dishes, so I wasn't interested in voluntary food service work. Homework help, making welcome basket for new immigrants and other stuff was more "my stuff."

And then, Yom Kippur (the Jewish holiday of fasting for 25 hours and repenting) landed on Thanksgiving weekend. My fiance observes Yom Kippur. Last year, I volunteered to this "Outrun Poverty" event that 2 friends were coordinating. It happened to land on Yom Kippur, so I took the opportunity to do the jobs I'd find least fun. I showed up in the early cold morning and carried heavy tables through a dew filled field. But, I actually had a blast for most of the time, because it was a volunteer day with fun people. But I tried to make it a day about service and something good.

My friend who organizes crazy volunteer stuff has moved to British Columbia (and I need to skype her soon). There's no outrun poverty thing this year. But I wanted to do something volunteery on Yom Kippur. But what?

So, I decided to bite the bullet, and try out this soup kitchen thing. I always pictured in my head that I'd be standing behind a cafeteria counter with a ladle of potatos (and my sister had the same image). In reality, I figured I'd be washing or scraping dishes, or peeling potatos or cutting carrots. I figured only a few people were servers. I wrote an email to the Mission, which is the soup kitchen that is most well known around here. They wrote me back and said they needed me for their Monday evening dinner service and I'd work 2-6pm. I was game.

I knew I had to show up in modest clothes and I had to leave my valuables at home. So, in old jeans, a unisex t-shirt, and nothing but my bus pass, cell phone, and house keys, I went downtown. I was nervous.

It's only a block from a major shopping centre and an university. As I walked up and read the signage, I never realized it was a soup kitchen AND a men's shelter. I guess I should have realized that. There was the "registration" desk that had lots of clients asking about beds. Two women cycles were asking directions and for a bathroom. I smiled and said I was there to volunteer. They welcomed me behind the desk and then I walked down some stairs and followed the signs to the volunteer lounge.

There was a table with coffee and juice and snacks. It was awesomely organized with computer printed name tags with cute fall leaves. I got an apron, a hair net and gloves. And then they told me my "role."

There were no volunteers in food prep that I know of. Or, no "occasional" volunteers in food prep. The people in the kitchen were regulars and had a certain procedure. So, I wasn't peeling potatos. There were not dishwashers, so I wasn't doing that.

There were people that were assigned as "scrapers." When I heard that, I envisoned scraping pots and pans. But it was just dumping food from the plates before they got washed. That's not a glamorous job, but I can't imagine that there was much left on many of the plates. But that wasn't my job.

There were people assigned to be "clearers" who picked up the dirty plates on the tables and took them to the scrapers. One of the girls I chatted with for a while was a clearer. Her gloves got really dirty right off the bat. She was really busy because her table had a high turnover. It seemed like a more challenging job - but I wasn't assigned that.

There were "servers" who had to lay forks and knives down at the tables. When clients were seated at tables by staff, the servers took food from the kitchen on trays and placed the food in front of the clients. The trays were kinda heavy and there was a lot of running around. I watched them go, but I wasn't assigned that.

There were "juice people" who carried a pitcher of orange juice and a pitcher of cranberry juice and just walked around filling up juice cups. I wasn't assigned that.

I was assigned the role of "gift giver." I didn't pick this. I didn't ask for it. And it was the biggest volunteering cope out ever. I stood at the exit, with a box of apples and gave out apples and wished everyone a Happy Thanksgiving. I'm not sure why I needed the hairnet (or even the apron). I felt intensely guilty, because it was crazy easy and extremely fun. I got to see, talk to, and smile at every single person that ate there. Sometimes I got to talk to them a few times, because quite a few of the clients went through several times to get several portions.

The exit I was standing at was also the entrance for men looking for bed space. There were a lot of people coming in and trying to go in the wrong way. They needed to come in the entrance and get in the line so that staff could seat them. Once things got started, we had 8-10 people at 20 tables at all times, so I'm assuming there was a big line up at the entrance on the other side of the building.

So, I was apple girl, and well wisher, and also a greeter and direction giver. Eventually, I also gave directions to the chapel for coffee and told the guys when the line up for beds for the night would start. I didn't mind being the greeter, except a few of the guys were kinda upset when they found out they had to go outside and walk around to the other side. But there were big, hulking staff members there, so I wasn't really worried. If anyone made me nervous, I never said anything to them and let the staff handle it.

Now, because my job was to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving and an apple, I feel like I have a good sense of the type of clients that were there. I signed a paper on the volunteer form saying that I would respect clients' privacy and not share their information. I want to uphold the privacy of specific clients, but at the same time, I want to give you (the internet public) an idea of the people who use homeless shelters and soup kitchens. I provide these vague, anonymous descriptions so that you can understand the people behind the statistics.

The extremely large majority of clients were men or course. And almost all were Caucasian, which surprised me. Most were in their 50s or older. The large majority were complete sweethearts. They in all aspects reminded me of my great Uncle who passed away in '98 of cancer in the esophagus. Like him, most of these men were moderately clean, wore extremely worn second hand clothes, smelled ok, and were completely grateful for everything. They gave lots of warming genuine smiles. Some approached me and said, "That was really wonderful. Thank you." And that was just great. These guys were sometimes well shaven, sometimes not, they seemed to be just getting by were just happy to get a nice warm meal in a nice atmosphere (there was live music and pretty linens and centerpieces).

Of course, that's not all of the clients. There were guys with long shaggy beards and lots of bags. One guy who I knew I gave 3-4 apples to was sitting outside by the shopping center afterward with a hat begging for coins. These were the guys who absolutely needed this dinner. Some looked (and smelled) like they had not showered in weeks.

There were guys who looked like they were in the mists of fighting their demons. Those crows feet eyes and the arrogant swagger set my alarm bells off. There was one guy in his 50 with a Hulk Hogan handlebar mustache who was a complete rooster. He reminded me of an uncle I'm not so found of. He was smart, too smart. He used his brains to get himself into more trouble, and he was the type that thought he was running the show. He told me he went around 7 times. One of my friends who was working as a clearer commented on what a character he was. It didn't bother me, until I saw one of the girls - probably in her teens or early twenties - joke around with him, and I got the vibe that he was the sort of 50 year old guy that has sex with 20 year old girls.

There was not many women. The ones that came in by themselves or with other women were outstandingly mostly young. Like, younger than me - teens or very early twenties. A few of these young women were heavy set and dressed in hoodies and punk goth clothes - I figured they were runaways. Most of them were in very revealing clothes and were skinny - I figured they might be prostitutes. Although the men were mostly Causcasian, the women were mostly Aboriginal.

Middle aged women were almost exclusively accompanied by a man. Most of the couples that came in reminded me of just regular folks - probably on social assistance and getting by, but a nice big meal like this is a great perk. Guys would be in jeans and ball cap, women with pony tails and wind breakers. Everyday people you'd see in working class areas. A few of the couples looked more distressed like they were both homeless, but that was a very rare minority.

A lot of individuals were walking with canes. Several individuals looked as though they were hard working people who became disabled and found themselves on hard times. There were very few people who appeared mentally disabled in the form of mental retardation. There were a few nonverbal clients, but very few. I noticed burn marks and bruises on various wrists - mostly women who looked beaten. A few of the young men wore slings and had black eyes. I wondered if they were abuse victims.

Of course, young men were a minority. Whereas the older men looked gristled and weathered, the a lot young men were typically fit and strong and heavily tattooed. Basically, the skinny young men looked like they had been battered, and the muscular young men looked like they spend their time maintaining their "protection." They all had really clenched jaws and looked tense.

There were no black women, but several black men of varying ages. All the younger black men appeared to be recent immigrants. There were very very few people of middle eastern heritage, which greatly surprised me. There were more Aboriginal men than Black men, and they were statistically less interested in apples. There were maybe half a dozen middle eastern men, and one family. The family was very well dressed. The father approached me and happily said, "This is my family!" He introduced his wife, two older teenage daughters and three younger daughters, who all took apples happily. The older daughters and the wife wore sparkling pretty hijabs. There were perhaps the most well dressed clients. I thought perhaps they were recent immigrants who were doing ok but appreciated the meal. They seemed happy.

Aside from those 3 young girls, I only saw one other child. She was a blond girl around 5 and came with her father. They stayed a long time and looked like they were having real quality time together. I got the feeling that her dad probably lives in a group home and probably doesn't have regular custody of her. It really warmed my heart to think that the Mission gives that father a chance to spend holidays with his daughter. He probably can't take her to a restaurant, but the Mission gives them a way to be together. I saved that story for last, because they probably affected me the most.

I hope I did not infringe upon the privacy of any of the clients by what I wrote. I believe everything is vague enough to still maintain their confidentiality. A lot of times people don't care about people who need soup kitchens. I've heard people say things that make it sound like homeless people "deserve" their fate. When me and my friends were discussing compassion and humanity once, someone said that the people who are treated with the least compassion are criminals, people with addictions and people with mental health problems. Regardless of what they've done, they're still human. Sure, you shouldn't put yourself in an unsafe situation with people of questionable motivations. But no one should be denied human rights.

So, I had a blast. I loved smiling and wishing people a Happy Thanksgiving. I appreciated the polite, sincere "thank you"s that I received. Some of them would wink at me and ask for a second apple (and I'd always give them one). Some would smile a big, toothless smile and say, "I can't eat apples! I have no teeth!" And some patted their bellies or politely shook their heads and said, "No thanks dear." They had more manners than university kids, or public transit users, or cruise ship patrons.

The volunteer work I did tonight might not have been that significant. If I wasn't there, not much would have changed. Maybe my warm greetings made a few people feel better, but I know I had a small impact on them. They had a much larger impact on me. It was such a huge learning experience. It was such a great experience. I hope by writing about it, I can sharing some of that learning with you.

The Cruise Ship

2011-09-17T09:26:00.002-04:00

Saturday morning on September 3rd started off with the The Yellow Restaurant again. Having disliked the French toast and pancakes, this time I went for the fruit salad and a BLT. Both were huge and more than satisfying. So I went from too small of a breakfast, to a huge one. Given that it was the day I’d start the cruise ship adventure – hunger was not something I’d feel for a while again. This final time at yellow, I took the time to admire the crazy American movie posters of early Jack Nicholson, and the pretty floral light fixtures. But I never want to go there again.

We packed our stuff, took the suitcases down 2 flights in the elevator, and 1 set of marble stairs. Then I sat on my broken piece of luggage at the base of the hotel, with the stained glass window and the fat alley cats. A bald man in dress shoes, dress pants and a dress shirt appeared and asked me, my fiancé and his brother if we were his clients. We were. He wanted to go and leave to drive us to the cruise ship right away, but we had to wait for my fiance’s parents to finished bringing down their luggage and to check out. They were only an additional 15 minutes, and were ready 10 minutes after when they told the driver to be there. We got the treat of watching the dude pace insanely. He was really tall and skinny, had tanned skin, a round face and a pointing long nose. I felt guilty for making him wait, but I couldn’t speed up the process. I thought about my dad would is always 20 minutes early when he’s expecting someone – so different from my in-laws who tend to make people wait.

The drive to the cruise ship was 90 minutes. It started off in the city and was really bumpy and uncomfortable on the cobblestone. We went through a new section of the shopping district. I didn’t take pictures because things were not as picturesque at the glorious historical Rome. Buildings were gray stone with large window fronts, and designer dresses and hand bags in the windows. The roads were wider than in other areas, but still considerably narrow by Canadian standards – like the byward market in Ottawa. It looked like any shopping district in any city. Aside from that, I regret not taking pictures of the many tourist huts. I didn’t want to photograph the solicitors for fear they’d demand money out of me, and I was afraid the low budget tourist huts might do the same. But there were so many, and so far they have been the same in every city, just with different ornaments and snowglobes.

Eventually we got out of the city, and then the drive got really nice. It was finally the part of Italy that I had been dying to see – the vineyards and olive fields, and cute little homes. There were so many pretty homes made of orange and yellow stucco with red roofs – with tall Cyprus trees and green hills. So beautiful, it looked just like the canvass art I put up in my office before the trip. I had a huge grin on my face and kept telling my fiancé that we need to “pick our house.” It was hard to take photos – we werent’ driving through these parts to tour, just to get to the port. But I clicked away as fast as I could.

At one point, there were hills to the right, water to the left. I wanetd to move there. I could have stayed there. We got to the marina – it was the first of many I’ve seen in the past week. Everything was suddenly more modern. There were Italian fishermen n little boats, some bigger leisure boats, some even larger industrial boats, and one big huge Star Princess Cruise ship.

We drove to the back of the marina at the deep sea port. A skinny young man with shiny metallic teeth took our suitcases right away (this was 1pm). We then went in a building, someone took my photo, and we had to fill out of a form confirming we didn’t have a cold or dirrhea, then we went through another door, showed our passports and got our cruise cards and map of boat. My fiance’s parents have gold cards, the rest of us have blue. Supposedly that’s because it’s our first cruise, or something about the loyalty plan. Then we had our carryon stuff scanned and we went through a metal detector. Then we were supposed to separate by cabin number, but we stuck together, got photos take for our cruise cards (not the physical cards, but the computer account associated with them). Then there was staff in the elevator to take us to our floor.

My fiance’s parents’ room had a double bed and partially obstructed view of water. Our room was large, with two twin beds, and to fold out beds that become “upper births” over the other beds. It’s a lot larger than I thought. I always thought “boat cabins” would be like sleeper cars on trains. It’s really spacious, more like a hotel room. When you first walk in, there a little “garment room” or ‘closet area’ or “my office” where I type when the boys are asleep. It’s pretty much a little aisleway that leads to the bathroom and our large closet. The shower is small, but given that I was expecting the toilet to be in the shower, I’m impressed. Then you walk passed the closet area and there a large desk with many drawers (that are going unused) and a fridge and flat screen tv. Then the beds, with about 2-3 feet of foot space between them. Quite large. Probably because the upper birth ladders come down in the middle section. If there were 4 people in the room, the 2 ladders would need that much space.

Speaking of that ladder, it’s really sketchy. It just sits on the ledge, but always wobbles and really feels unsafe. There’s a huge metal “safety guard rail” that you can’t get rid of. It cut me when I was trying to set it up, and after 5 nights of sleeping on the top bunk, my arm is bruised from always smacking (I don’t roll over in my sleep, I’m not worried about falling out of the top bunk, but when I wake up to toss and turn, I keep forgetting that I don’t have the clearance to move my arms.

Each set of cabins on the boat is serviced by a specific housekeeping steward. Phong is our steward and he stopped by with information for us. Nearly all the workers are Phillipino, Thai, Korean, or other nationalities of Southeast Asian. Everything is really “American” especially the toilets. After using Israeli and Italian toilets for two weeks, it was actually nice to use a North American toilet again. Most toilets up to now have had various types of dual flush systems (which fine) and the water flushes down in a non-circular way. Our apartment in Jerusalem and our hotel in Rome both had toilets that just pour new water on top of the current bowl water from jets and don’t appear to have any suction. It’s really not an environmentally friendly system and it’s not that efficient. Our boat toilet is a suction toilet. You need to shut the lid to use it. When you have the bathroom door shut and your legs are bare (like you’re wearing shorts or a skirt), you can feel it sucking the air from around your calves. It’s crazy strong.

But enough toilet talk (for now).

I was exhausted. My fiance’s dad wanted to grab lunch together and explore, then go to supper together, and then watch a show at 8pm together. That didn’t happen. We decided to split up. We hung out for a bit, then went from floor 8 (emerald deck where our cabins were) to 14 – and ate at the buffet at the Horizon court. First, we read about what was free or not. For the first 3 days of the cruise I believed that beverages are not free – ever. Well, alcohol and soda isn’t. Orange juice is free at the breakfast buffet, and lemonade is free at the lunch buffet. Coffee and tea are always free. Food at the non-premium restaurants is free, and anything you don’t need to show your cruise card to access is free. The Santuary, 3 premium restaurants, all alcohol, the spa, and wifi costs money. Internet is crazy expensive - $55.00 for 100 minutes. Yikes. We’re not sure about room service. Our cabin binder lists prices next to room service delivery of beverages, and of “party food” like platters. But the other food doesn’t have prices except after the last item (pizza) it says $3.00 per delivery. Is that $3 to deliver pizza, or everything? We’re not sure.

So we went to the back of 14, to horizon court. The carpets were decorated with fish swimming in azure waters. The interior walls curved in and out around various seating areas and were covered in murals of pictuerques Mediterranean locations. By the end of the cruise, I could identify most of them as Santorini and other Greek locations. Around the murals, the walls were carved with geometric patterns of swirls – like Greek style. The exterior walls were floor to ceiling windows, and it was always a fantastic view there when we were in port. The ceiling was a light blue with little tiny glowing lights that were scattered around to look like stars. The theme of Horizon Court place was really cute – my favourite. Fish door handles and other accents and so aquatic. It was 2pm, my brother-in-law kept commenting on how we’d be eating again at our scheduled dinner at 5:30pm. I ate salmon in creamy sauce, veggie curry, roasted potatos (all very good), green beans (not so good), and a vanilla cupcake. The staff to passenger ratio is intense.

Before you enter the buffet line, you need to go past a staff member who stands at the purell machine and makes sure you sanitize your hands. Then when you get your food, there’s another staff member to carry your plate and find a table for you. Then another staff member offers you water or other drinks, and then someone comes and clears the plates. It’s crazy. When the guy asked for drinks, we all just asked for tap water, we didn’t want to incure crazy charges. At the end, it was weird to just get up and walk away. I guess it was like a school cafeteria – only we couldn’t actually clear our plates ourselves. With no “end ritual” to the meal, it was weird.

We then explored the whole ship from top to bottom. The boat only goes to deck 14 in the middle. Deck 15 technically has a medium part, but only on the boat exterior. Deck 16 is separate and you can’t walk to the front of the deck from the back, you need to go down a level and back up. Decks 17 and 18 are only at the back. Of course, started to explore from the top to the bottom therefore made things a little complicated.

Horizon Court was at the back of the ship, and we could take the elevator up to 17, so we did. This brought us to Skywalkers Lounge, the nightclub on board. The carpet was decorated with outer space planets and stars. It’s call Skywalkers because the elevators are technically at 17, but then you take a moving sidewalk (or walk alongside it) up this rampy glass skywalk (pedway, pedestrianwalk), and this goes to 18 where the bar is located. I really liked the theme of the lounge. Golden couches with pink and purple stars, funky little lamps with gold trip and multicoloured panels, huge static balls surrounding the raised dance floor. Lots of funky star and celestial themed decor. Big warpy fake potholes with neon illusions. A long bar with stools to our right, enough seating room for over a hundred people on various couches and chairs, and a smallish dance floor in the middle. Oh, and strange little “emergency exit” stairwells right in the center of the seating areas. There was also glass walls on all 4 sides, making an awesome panoramic view.

Of course, nothing was really going on in Skywalkers in the middle of the afternoon (actually, not much happened at other times either, it was sadly greatly underused). We walked back down by the moving sidewalk, and took the stairs down to deck 16. There was nothing really indoor here that we could access, so we went outside. This was the Oasis area, with three little pools – a kiddie splash pool, a 4ft cold water pool that was, and a hottub. And lots of lounge chairs. Set back against the boat was bar (there would be ones like that nearly everywhere you looked on board). When we were outside, we noticed exterior stairs going somewhere we hadn’t been. So we climbed up and up. I was nervous at first, not knowing where we were going, and exterior stairs when you’re climbing to the top of the ship makes you aware of the wind all around you. Three sets of stairs later, we found a basketball court “walled” with mesh netting at the very top of the ship. Two wooden benches were outside in the court, the “fan” area. Inside were a few basketballs. We went in through the mesh door thing, and played around. The russet colored court had a lot of bounce to it, I was impressed.

After goofy around there, we climbed back down the stairs (this area was not wheelchair accessible). We went back into the interior doors at 16 and down to 15. Here were the kids zones. To the left of the stairs (right if you’re facing the back of the ship and the elevators), was “Remix” the Teen zone. We weren’t teens, I was exactly 2 months away from my 28th birthday, but it was empty so we had a peek. There was a dark room for playing video games, cool funky lounge chairs, two fooseball tables, a little chess set, a graffiti wall and more. Across the hall on the other side of the boat was the “Pelicans” and “Splash” section for kids 3-6 and 7-12. Both were essentially funky classrooms and play areas.

What we didn’t find on this trip (but would later find) where the outdoor sections of the kids and teen areas. They were secure and could only be entered from the inside through the kid and teen only doors. The kid side had tricycles and hopscotch and a little basketball net. The teen side had a teen only hottub and a few other things. Instead, we went outside in the “anyage” section and turned towards the middle of the ship to explore more. There was a walkway on the edge of the boat that took us to the Conservatory, which was the section above a really large pool deck. It had a few lounge chairs and two ping pong tables. A glass dome roof covered it. We kept going and were above yet another pool deck, this one slightly bigger. Again, lounge chairs decorated this upper deck. A huge “tv” for Movies Under the Stars was fitted on the back of the Conservatory area. As we stood on the upper deck on 15, we looked down at the busy side at 14’s poolside. On one side of this larger pool was a pizza place (Prego), a grill (Trident Grill) for hamburgers and whatnot, and Mermaid’s tale bar between them. On the opposite side of the pool was an ice cream parlor. Both of these big pools had really interesting designs. Both had 2 little hottubs attached, and both had really shallow decks that bordered the deep pool. The first one we had seen that was below the Conservatory and slightly smaller was “Calypso” pool, and the second one with the food places around it was “Neptune’s pool.” Although people had just gotten on the ship about 90 minutes ago, Neptune’s pool was already getting crowded. There was a little toddler playing in the shallow, ankle deep water at poolside, and we watched and he tried to run into the 7ft deep end. We cringed. The mother stopped it in time. Phew.

As we walked on the 15th deck above the Neptune’s pool, we went up another flight of outdoor stairs back to the 16th deck. We then continued towards the front of the ship. Beyond this pool was a white “building” with signs saying it was the Golf Simulator, for a driving range. It was locked though. Beyond that, the deck turned into green astro turf, and special looking yellow lounge chairs were scattered around. It was a gated off area called the Sanctuary. The Sanctuary is advertised as the “adult only” relaxation place. You pay a premium cover charge to enter and it’s supposed to be super quiet and posh. An adult only section didn’t seem that enticing, consider we had barely seen people other than middle aged couples. I mean, the teen and kid zones were ghost towns. We did spot two young adults – two girls sunbathing on the regular blue loungers just outside of the Sanctuary. That seemed like the smart thing to do, it’s free to sunbathe there. We teased my brother-in-law over the girls, asking if he wanted us to talk to them for him.

We couldn’t go any further on the front of the ship, so we went down a level and went back inside on the left side of the boat. Somehow, we ended up smack dab in the middle of the Lotus Spa. The “entrance” with the reception area is on the right hand side of the ship, and the left hand side is nothing but a narrow hallway. Not only narrow, but filled with a dozen people taking a tour of the spa, a tour guide, and a big sign saying “For Spa Clients Only.” I wasn’t sure what to do, turn around, go back outside, but my fiancé and his brother were right behind me. So, we walked right through the group, and went down the hall, looking to get out of the spa. I was worried the Spa was a premium area like the Sanctuary – or maybe they were the same. I didn’t know. I just walked through this narrow, curvy passage way. We passed a series of massage rooms with beds, and then came to a dead end. Whoops. So, I turned to my left and realized the were only two ways out (1) back through the tour group and up to the Sanctuary entrance again, or (2) out a door that led to a pool. We went out. We were nervous, not sure if we were allowed to be there. This pool was different than the little ones at the back of the boat, and different than the large ones at the middle of ship. It had two hottubs, it also had a large green Buddha statue that poured water into the pool. It was quiet here, like no one knew about the place. Was it still part of the spa? On the opposite side, a door led back inside, right to the spa reception area. So perhaps it was. Our solution was to go up some stairs by the Buddha that led us back to the Golf Simulator. The guys were disappointed that the Golf Simulator was closed. On the other side of the pool, we saw some stairs leading up. We had no idea where, we just took the stairs again. It led us to the 16th deck, to “Princess Links” which is a putting green/mini golf thing. It was a really small area but cute. At the other side of it was another set of stairs. We took them and ended up in the Conservatory by the ping pong tables overlooking the pools again.

We went down to the 14th deck with the large Neptune and Calypso pools. Blue lounges surround the perimeters, and white patio sets were along the edges of the ship. We continued back towards the end of the boat. After Calypso’s pool, we were back in Horizon Court – the buffet place we had eaten at. There was a busy section, which was larger and closer to the food, and then a quieter “classy” section. Then, there was Horizon Terrace, and a little bar facing the back of the boat called Outriggers. My fiancé and I referred to this whole section as “Out-riggers” “Out-triggers” and “Ou-triggers.” The view from this very end of the boat was my favourite. You could take the buffet food at horizon and eat at the patio sets or on a blue lounger outside, it was really nice. And there were a few stairs that led down to yet another pool – I’m not sure how deep this was. It was bigger than the 4ft deep one a few decks above at the back, but smaller than the pool with the Buddha statue.

After fully exploring outriggers, we went inside and looked at the map. We didn’t find the “jogging track” that I wanted to see, but we thought we had explored everything from decks 14-18. Deck 13 didn’t exist (or was possibly extra clearance for the inground pools). Deck 12 was Aloha, Deck 11 was Baja, Deck 10 was Caribe and Deck 9 was Dolphin. All of these decks were described as having the cabins. We were staying on Deck 8, Emerald, and the next deck with public spaces was Deck 7 – the Promenade. So we took the elevator from 14 to 7. Since we were at the back of the ship when we did this, we ended up outside the Vista Lounge.

The Vista Lounge was a show lounge that was furnished with rows of cream couches and coffee tables followed by rows of blue armchairs and coffee tables. A stage was in the back corner, and a bar was between the two entrances to the lounge on the left and right hand sides of the ship. There was nothing going on when we were there, so we left. On deck 7, you can’t walk along the left side of the ship, just the right. Outside of Vista was a large curved cream colored couch that I called, “My couch” and determined that it was the coolest place on the ship. After that couch, you entered a hallway of sorts. First is the Photo and Video “store” which is a long hallway with advertisements for batteries, film, memory cards, etc. Throughout the cruise, this hallway would be stock with photos of passengers at different sites and with professional shots taken on formal nights that we’d be encouraged to purchase.

At this point, we spotted my fiance’s parents wondering along ahead of us. So we sped up – passed Sabatini’s Italian Restaurant – decoared with white and blue “Italian” design that looked more Greek to me, and past the Wheelhouse Bar with a giant boat wheel and a carpet that looked like a world map. Nearly halfway through the Explorer’s Lounge – with cream couches in the hallway and African safari murals, outside, Egyptian decor, hieroglyphics etched into the coffee tables, and on the walls on the side – we caught up with them. They had not even eaten at yet and were hungry. We directed them to Horizon Court. We looked over the places we had just zoomed through. Explorer’s lounge also had a small stage. Just beyond that, we were back in the midship area, and decks 5, 6, 7 were opened up in an atrium area called the Piazza. The midship elevators have “panoramic” views that you can see the other levels from (they also go to 14 and end up right between the two large pools). On each floor of the Piazza was various small shops and stations. In the middle was this elegant staircase that led down to a central area for small demonstrations with a white piano. Currently, four people along with a pianist were playing some classical tunes. It was so classy and elegant. We didn’t notice until a few days later, but on the 7th floor there was a black piano with several couches, and it was a cute little piano bar.

It’s hard to get all the various shops around the Piazza straight. On the 7th floor, we saw two jewellery stores, a Godiva chocolate store and a bar called Vines. There was also passenger services. Beyond that (more towards the front of the boat) was the Crown Grill, a premium restaurant that served steak and seafood. Then there was a hallway to the left that led to lobbies and desks for certain services like “Shore Excusions, Future Sales, Captain Circles” etc. We kept going until we saw red carpet stairs like a movie theatre and a sign saying Princess Theatre was closed. We went down the stairs to the 6th floor and saw the lower entrance to the theatre (it’s 2 floors big) was also closed. As we started to walk towards midship again, there was a casino. I didn’t want to go into the casino, so we turned left and went through “Shooter’s Lounge” which was a small, dark, dank bar. It took a few seconds to realize it was the designated smoking area on ship. Yick. We passed through Shooter’s from left to right, and realized we had to still go through the casino.

The casino was quite large. I was picturing something small and dinky, like the vlt terminals on the PEI ferry boat. It was easily bigger than one of the larger dining rooms and had tons of various games and things. But I’m morally against gambling, so I kept my head forward and just moved on. We passed through the casino and ended up in the Piazza on the 6th level. The map showed a video arcade between the casino and the Piazza, we found it on the left hand side of the casino. It was a small room with just 6 machines and an air hockey table. There was a machine for getting change and one game of air hockey was $3. Um, no thanks. It was probably the most uninteresting room I had seen on ship. It wasn’t well kept and really boring. Too bad. If the games were complimentary (or even cheaper) I would have spent a lot of time there. To explain how large the casino was, this video arcade was less than 1/8 of the entire casino area.

So we went back to the Piazza. One this level, the left hand side of the boat had a perfume store, and the right hand side had a convinence and clothing store as well as the “addictions” store (liquor, cigarettes, chocolate and potato chips). We walked passed the elegant stair case and panoramic elevators, and wound up at the entrance to the Portofino Dining room, where we’d be going in a few hours. There was another dining room – the Amalfi – at the back of the ship at the same level, but you need to take the stairs outside the Vista Lounge at the back of the ship to get there. In between the two dining rooms was the large kitchen galley for staff only.

We checked out the menu for dinner and then went down to the 5th floor. Here at the bottom of the Piazza was the “International Cafe” which I thought was a premium restaurant until the end of the cruise and was disappointed that I never ate there. We walked passed that and into the Princess Art Gallery. It was a long long hallway of nothing but paintings. Some were actually admittedly nice. I was impressed. We made it to the end of the 5th floor, looked at our maps for things we hadn’t found. At the time, we didn’t realize the dome covered deck over the Calypso pool was the Conservatory, we hadn’t foun the jogging track, or the wedding chapel. By this time, we were crazy tired and thirsty. We still weren’t sure what was free – so we went back to Horizon Court and got ice water from the self serve area. We were drinking it when my fiance’s parents passed us. They had just finished eating.

We went back to our cabin. I climbed up on the top bunk (hit my head on the ceiling) and we all took naps. Well, I was just started to doze off for a nap when the speaker on the ceiling (only a foot away from my head) starting blaring an announcement that in 20 minutes, all passengers would be required to do the safety drill patience at their “Muster” stations. People kept saying muster, muster muster stations. The guys called it Mustard station, I said Munster. The loud announcements came every 5 minutes, telling us that at precisely 4:30pm, 7 shot alarms and 1 long one would go off. Then we needed to grab out life jackets and go to our designated area. I wanted to go right away – I wasn’t going to get any sleep. The guys insisted on waiting until exactly when the 1 long alarm rang. Our cabin was exactly midship, next to the panoramic elevators. Our munster station was on the 7th floor, the explorer’s lounge area right below us. By the time we left, Explorer’s Lounge was full, as was Wheelhouse Bar. We sat in Sabantini’s Italian Premium Restaurant with the rest of the overflow. Other passengers were in the Vista Lounge, the Crown and Grill, and the Princess Theatre. If you were in a place with a stage, you got to watch someone demonstrate the instructions. We had staff in the hallways (some were dancers we’d later see in the production shows on boat) who demonstrated how to wear the life vest. We all had to practice and then we went back to our rooms.

We then went to supper for our 5:30pm sitting. Portofino is a really classy and intimidating dining room. We told them who we were and showed our cruise cards saying we had “fixed seating” each night at Table 149. It was an impressive table at the front, on an elevated platform over the other tables. A female server with a black pony tail and white eye shadow greeted us. I sat down and she pushed in my chair for me! So surprising. Then she takes a cloth napkin and places it on my lap. I was totally startled, my fiancé and his brother at least had a heads up about what to expect. I felt like Ariel from the Little Mermaid when she goes on shore and doesn’t know how to handle the classy stuff that Prince Eric throws at her. Obviously I’m too barbaric for a cruise. People offered us wine, we took the tap water. There were rolls on the table and they were so good! Best dinner rolls ever. So fresh, not hard and difficult to eat. The butter was shaped like flowers and had little ice cubes in the dish with it. We politely waited for my fiance’s parents.

Around 5:45pm they showed up. His mom came and sat with us, and his Dad was talking to the Maitre’D. He didn’t like our table (he hadn’t even sat at it yet). Most of the “fixed dining” tables were in the Amalfi dining room at the back of the boat, with larger windows and better views. We were an overflow and Portofino (and Capri below it on the 5th floor) were the “dine anytime” rooms. Our table would always be ready for us, but most people here didn’t have fixed dining. Given that, my father-in-law wanted the best table, he didn’t want one in the central on a raised platform, he wanted one by the window.

So, we left the water and rolls we had already started eating, and moved across the room. Our server there was a man named Elia who was Italian. He is older and really funny. Our “assistant waiter” is younger and shyer and from Fiji. When we sat down at this table, the cards fell that I was looking directly at the window with the water. So pretty. When the boat started moving, my fiance’s brother (who was to my right) complained that he was getting motion sickness. He was facing the rear of the boat after all. But it was really pretty and I loved it.

The menus were large and confusing. On the left page were two ‘Signature dishes’ both Italian pastas. Below them were ‘Alternatives’ which listed a salad, a boiled chicken breast, some beef medallions and 3-4 other things. On the right page were 3 appetizers, 3 salads and soups, and 6 main dishes. What the heck did alternative mean? Elia asked if we were ready. I was starving. I said yes, so he started with me. I asked for the first Italian pasta – the pasta shells in marinara sauce. He then asked if that was my appetizer or entre. I didn’t want an appetizer, I said just a main dish please.

And that’s when I learned that on Princess Cruises, everyone eats at least a 3 course meal every night. What? That’s a crazy ton of food. But my fiancé order spring rolls as his appetizer and fettucini as his main, and when it got around to my fiance’s brother, I asked if I could add the spring rolls as an appetizer – realizing that I wouldn’t get my food until everyone else had eaten their first course.

Since the food is free, you can really eat as much as you want. If you want 2 main dishes, you can do that. My fiance’s dad had 4 courses, not including his bread. He had the melon cocktail appetizer, then a salad, then a soup, and then a steak with potato. Both parents put sour cream on the potato, which was on the same plate as their steak. Me and my fiancé picked up on it before either of them did, and asked about it. They just shrugged it off. Then of course, was dessert. I had the double chocolate cream cake, it was awesome. The dessert menu helped me to understand the main menu. It had 6 options, followed by 3 ‘alternatives’ which were Princess Love Boat Dream (chocolate mousse in the shape of a heart), New York Cheesecake with raspberry, and make your own sundae. The alternatives will be there each night, but the other 6 change nightly. So on the main menu, the left page had always been pretty much the same, and is the back ups if you don’t like the nights’ specials. (Later in the week, on Tuesday, we ordered steamed vegetables which weren’t on the menu and the kitchen brought us stuff made to order. It’s pretty cool).

Dinner took two hours – 5:30pm -7:30pm. I was exhausted and falling asleep at the table. I didn’t want to go to show. I wanted to see cool dancing and whatnot- but it was just the welcome show which I thought would be lame. Besides, I had to call our room Steward Phong for my brother-in-law’s sleep apnea machine, for my extra towels, and to get the princess patter newsletter that everyone else had been carrying around. We clearly didn’t know when all the shows were. My mother-in-law went to the Piazza to ask about the laundry system and then we went back. We had already had towels and princess patter. Phong does up our room for day and night. He does the night dressing while we’re at dinner. He put 3 chocolates on one of the pillows along with the room service requests for the next day. And he had changed the towels and toiletries to accommodate 3 people. But we still needed either a splitter at the headboard or an extension cord at the desk for my fiance’s brother’s sleep apnea machine. I called Phong’s pager and he showed up outside our door minutes later. I explained what we needed, and Phong came and gave us an extension cord for the machine. Then he suggested we call room service about the distilled water (he knew about our need of distilled water, that was impressive). Room service guy came when my brother-in-law was in the bathroom, and I was alone. He gave me the water plus a form with blanks for Date, Gratuity, and Signature. I had no idea what to do. I wrote down a $5 tip, because he was staring at me and I’d never been in that position before. I have no idea if that gets added to our bill at the end, or what. The water was free, so I wasn’t expecting the form. I then proceeded to get tormented over the generousity of a $5 tip, especially since the water probably cost much less than that. I don’t know what I picked that number. I literally wasn’t thinking. That roughly what I tip at restaurants (given that my bills are usually $25), and what I tip to get my hair cut (I mean, I do percentages, but that’s what it works out to). Anything smaller seems ridiculous, like giving someone a penny. I try to be a good tipper – I realize that “tipping 250%” as my brother-in-law says is also very ridiculous, but I was a deer in headlights.

We skipped the show and rested, telling my brother-in-law we were going to the singles and solos meet and greet for him to meet girls at the Wheelhouse Bar. He was actually a great sport, changed into clean clothes and went with us at 9:30pm. Too bad it was extremely lame and was just old couples listening to show tunes. We’re the only young people on the boat - just about. Next door in Explorer’s Lounge was crazy loud lounge show, but was supposed to be trivia in ten minutes. We decided to try and find the jogging track and fitness center. We went back to the spa area, cut through. It was really intimidating. Beyond the reception area was a beauty salon like area along the right side of the boat. We saw the other “exit” to the pool with a Buddha statue, and walked along was I’d described as the waiting room for various spa treatments. Supposedly there were hallways that led to steam rooms and different treatment areas, but I never really saw them. Then we went through a door and were in a small free weight area. Beyond that, the cardio and aerobics rooms were at the nose of the boat, with floor to ceiling windows outside. The cardio room had 3 precor elliptical,then 8 treadmills, then 3 bikes all pointed outside. The aerobics room was mainly empty, with spinning bikes and balls and equipment pushed up around the edges. At the entrance to the cardio room was a sign saying that they closed at 10pm, it was now 9:45pm.

We attempted to exit the aerorbics room from a door that mirrored the entrance to the free weights/cardio part. That just led us to a narrow hallway that brought us back to the massage treatment area and the dead end we had found earlier. So we again went out by the pool with the Buddha statue. We climbed up into the darkness. The decks are not lit up at night. That’s insane. There we were, with wind in our hair, walking along the deck, with nothing but completely blackess to our rights where the boat stopped. Keep in mind, we were now moving. The boat had left port right when we started to eat dinner, so the blackness was the sea, somewhere between Italy and France.

It was intensely thrilling. I was surprised the guys were going along with it. Especially since the deck was wet and kinda slippery. We got near the back of the ship, near the hottubs on the 16th floor, which was the first place we saw that was lit up. Here, we found some stuff we hadn’t seen earlier. Aside from the hottubs, there were two large shuffboard decks and so we played some shuffleboard. I got teased for slapshotting the shuffle board. There was also a giant chess board, but we couldn’t see where the chess pieces were. It was too insanely windy and we decided to go back in.

Then we went up to the 17th floor. The elevators took forever, and we went with an elderly couple. We got there, it was empty except for a “private party” to one side. My fiance’s mom had a Cruise Critic Party that night, we thought that maybe that was the party. We walked around in the Sky Lounge for a while, then as we were leaving, we ran into the young couple we went on the Vatican tour with. They confirmed it was the Cruise Critic Party and asked if my fiance’s mom was inside. We thought it was funny that we ended up at the same party (by accident) but didn’t know if they were in there. We waited for an elevator forever, saw the old couple that we went on the Rome tour with, and then finally, when the elevator came, we got on the elevator with the fat guy in a green shirt and his fat girlfriend in a pink shirt who had taken the elevator up with us about 30 minutes ago. We walked back by Trivia in Explorer’s Lounge, which was now getting over. We saw the bonus road. The Singles and Solo event in the Wheelhouse Bar was still completely lame (trivia didn’t seem much better). We went back to our room, and my brother-in-law quit on us and went to bed.

We sat around and then went to the Sky Lounge again around 11pm (my brother-in-law wanted us to put all the lights out while we sat around for an hour waiting to go out again. I made him pose with his cpap mask and my black sleep mask. It was semi-hilarious). We got back to the elevators that take forever and met Wilson and Mae, a couple from Toronto who were probably 5-10 years older than us. We chatted to them in the lounge for a bit, as we sat at the back of Skywalker’s Lounge on a padded bench against the glass wall that was overlooking the splash from the back of the boat. Then another young couple started smoking so we moved to the “non-smoking” section of the lounge. We played with the static balls for a bit, kept an eye out for “young adults” but only saw maybe half a dozen. We left at 11:45pm, I got an apple and cheese from the horizon buffet and we went to bed.

And that was our first day on the cruise ship.

The Vatican

2011-09-17T05:12:00.003-04:00

On Friday (September 2nd) we ate again at the Yellow restaurant for breakfast. I wasn’t crazy about the French toast I had the day before (it had only been 1 piece of toast and wasn’t filling). Today I tried the pancakes. I didn’t like them anymore. It was the 3rd day of being in Rome, and by now I was starting to notice how all service workers except the male Italian waiters were Philippino. The cleaning staff at the Romea Hotel, and the serving staff at the Yellow Bar restaurant, and many many more were all young Phillipino women. This made me even more curious about the sociological dynamic at play in Italy.

After breakfast we went to the Vatican for a tour. To get there, we took the Roma Subway. We walked to the train station (where we had been 2 night before) and took the subway from the Termini station. It was actually quite the big deal. I guess I’ve take a few different subway systems in recent months. It is pretty intimidating. In Montreal, I was anxious, in Toronto, I was being super Type A. But now I feel like a pro. Rome’s system is pretty similar to Toronto’s. So it was weird to see the others kinda freak out and scruntinize the signs and the ticket machines. Well, it took over 40 minutes to figure out how to purchase 5 one-way tickets, but that’s ok. It was a machine, and it only took Euros of less than 5E denominations, which is crazy. So my father-in-law had to dash up stairs to the mall at the train station to ask people for change. The whole time were standing there, huge crowds kept passing us by. It was really hectic. There were no gypsies in the subway (it was well guarded) and other than the massive crowds, it was ok.

We got our tickets, went down and down and down into the grey brick tunnels, then walk and walk and then got to ‘B’ (blue line) platform. But we needed an ‘A’ (orange line) station, so we veered to the right ,then walked up and up and up a bunch of stairs. It was no further than I had to walk at the Toronto station I was at in May, but my mother-in-law hadn’t anticipated so much walking. It was easily a couple of kilometres from our hotel to the train station and our subway platform. She started trying to suggest cabbing back, we tried to talk her out of it, and it’d be ok (it was, it was a shorter walk on the way home for some reason).

The subway train and platform area was really clean and nice. The orange line train had orange seats and decor. Electronic signs at each end of each car read the next stop, and huge maps. It was a really simple system to understand. We needed to get off the subway in 7 stops. After about 3 stops, we could hear the sound of an accordion coming from somewhere. We were in the furthest car – I had suggested it hoping it wouldn’t be crowded. It wasn’t crowded at all at this time of day. The accordion noise got bigger, me and my fiancé looked trying to see where it was coming from. He spotted it, a boy. A young boy, maybe about 9 or10 years old had a small accordion. It might not have been the real thing, it might have just been a toy that played recorded music. The music wasn’t spectacular, but it was pretty decent. He kept starting and stopping to play different tunes. He was pitiful. It really broke my heart. He had brown skin, perhaps of Caribbean or Middle Eastern decent. He looked like the child of one of those many solitictors we saw the day before on our way to the Coliseum. He was wearing a pink-ish t-shirt and blue pants. He was chubby, with a round belly and puffy cheeks, short black hair. I’m writing this on September 8th, and I can still see his face. As he worked his way down the subway cars, I started to wonder how to handle it. Eventually, he made his way to stand right in front of my fiancé and I, and stopped playing to reach out his open palm, asking us for money with a pitiful look. I shook my head, gave him a sad look and said I was sorry. My father-in-law was standing (we had been sitting at this point), and when the boy approached him, he reached into his pocket and gave some coins.

It really broke my heart. I knew it was school vacation time in Italy – I knew the kids didn’t go back until September 15th. If I thought he was a middle class kid who decided to be a musical entrepreneur, I would have been fine. If I thought he was a working class kid who was doing it as a summer job to help his family out, I would have been fine. I’ve heard enough stories of how kids need to earn an income to help their families that I can appreciate it. But, I didn’t think either one of those scenarios were the truth. Most likely, I thought that he was probably the kid of a recent immigrant, his dad was probably lined up behind that blue barricade I saw the day before. The money would be needed to get his family on their feet. But what if he earned a better income than his parents? Of course people would be taking pity on him – how could you not? But if he earns too much – he’ll never get to school. He’ll still out of school to support his family. No everyone needs an ivy league education, and not everyone wants an academic lifestyle. I understand. But he looked well fed, and half-decently clothed, he obviously afforded the admission rate to ride the subway as a business investment. As long as he was getting the basic needs, I didn’t want to encourage him to work the subway. I can’t be sure exactly where the money is going, and if he’s working for someone else, I don’t want him to sacrifice his future on that. So, I shook my head and it really broke my heart.

We exited the subway and luckily there were less steps to get back up to street level. It was busy and not an area we had driven by the day before with Marcello. My father-in-law asked an old Italian man walking his dog for direction. The guy had slicked back white hair and his shirt was unbuttoned to his mid-chest. So very Italian.

We followed his directions, walked by a big brown church with a Saint statue in the corner and flowers and candles still lit under the statue. We kept going until the streets looked grunging and we found a newspaper stand. At this point, I knew we needed to go back to the church, which must have been the “square” were we’d meet our guide.

Our tour guide was Justin from “Roming Tours” (pronounced roaming tours, get it?). He’s originally from Toronto, went to school in the US studied business major and classics minor and then moved to Rome as a tour guide. He’s awesome. He’s my favourite. He’s about 30, has a brown goatee, and is hilarious and charismatic. He throws a ton of pop culture references into everything he talks about. He’s an excellent presenter ( I think he needs to be an academic. University kids would love his presentations). At his site, he wouldn’t stand there and just recite facts or a narrative. He gave a passionate, energetic performance. It was like really high quality edutainment. And he was really considerate, of mobility, and heat, and shade and water and everything. By far, my favourite tour guide. I would go back to Rome and hire Justin and Roming Tours to take me to the other sites (because the company does that).

The one caveat with Justin is that he’s non-religious, and is very straightforward with presenting the historical, critical narrative of the Catholic church. That means he wasn’t afraid to criticize the Papacy, the origins of the church and more. I loved his jokes about Popes, I loved his stories of how Michangelo pulled fast ones over Pope Julius’s blind eyes (by painting two men embracing and then some in the Sistene Chapel). If you’re a devoted Catholic, you might get offended by his perspective. But I’m not, and I soaked it up.

The first thing we did was pick up the tickets in a cool air conditioned place. Vatican security really isn’t intense. We were told we had to cover our shoulders and knees. I brought a shawl just incase. In all reality, people were there in shorts and tank tops, and they were the majority. Justin’s knees were exposed. No one cared. Of course, the Vatican is rich, and makes most of it’s money from (1)the real it owns (it owns land EVERYWHERE through many companies around the globe), (2) donations, and (3) tourism. So the Catholics are shrewed at their business. Let people keep their tank tops, and they get more money. So, it was much more laid back than I was expecting.

At the back of white room where we bought tickets, we climbed a set of stairs that led into the first courtyard. It was pretty hot, but we got a spot in the shade. Here, Justin gave a really excellent overview of Christianity and the formation of the Catholic Church. He talked about Paul and Peter, their roles in the church, their executions (right down to the gory details) and how the tomb of Peter was supposedly located under St. Peter’s Basilica which we were now looking at. It’s also the largest domed basilica in the world – though it’s debatable. The red domed church in Florence also claims that, and the dome of the Panthenon in Rome (which we saw the day before) technically claims it too. According to Justin, the church in Florence has a dome bigger in diameter, but it’s newer. At the time of the building St. Peter’s Basilicia, Michangelo was hired to design it. Well, not ‘design.’ The Pope Julius the II designed it, Michangelo just had to work out the technical stuff. He was really supposed to be the Pope’s yes man. At the time, the Panthenon was bigger, and so the Pope wanted the Basilica to be bigger. But Michangelo really respected the Panthenon and didn’t want to up it. So he changed some discrete details on the “blue prints” and hid them away. He died before the basilica was done, but after enough work had been started that the diameter of the dome couldn’t be changed. After his death, people found out he was trying to screw up the Pope, but they couldn’t increase the diameter, so they increased the height. Technically, this makes the church the largest church in the world, but the dome is not the largest dome – the Panthenon was still larger. Then later on, the church of Maria (I think) in Florence built an even bigger dome, but not a bigger church.

Justin didn’t just stick to talking about Pope and the happenining of the Vatican. He told us some great stories about emperor’s of Rome. My favourite (but highly inappropriate) story was of Emperor Nero. Nero was verifiably insane. His great-uncle was Emperor of Rome before him. Well, his uncle and his stepdad. See, it’s messed up. Nero’s mother’s uncle was the Emperor, and Nero’s mother became the Emperor’s wife. Incest was all the rage back then. Nero’s mom was a power hungry woman, and when the Emperor declared that Nero would be Emperor after him, Nero’s mother killed the Emperor (her husband and uncle). Nero was only 5 (I think, it’s been a week since I heard this story). Nero became Emperor of Rome at a crazy young age, but he was actually a puppet king to his power hungry mother. His mother was so power hungry (and so messed up from the incest with her uncle) that she started to seduce her own son to gain political power of him. Totally, totally messed up. Eventually, in his teens, Nero stands up to his abusive mother and kills her. Then he falls in love with a woman closer to his own age, but gets her pregnant right off the back. So, they announce that they will get married. Before the wedding, Nero turns psycho and kills his pregnant-soon-to-be wife. That’s a huge scandal, and the people were looking forward to the public wedding, and something needs to be done. So, Nero commissions his people to find a girl who looks like his wife-to-be, and he would marry the stand –in. His guards (or advisor, or whoever) returns with a young girl who looks similar enough. Only, it’s not actually a girl, it’s a 12 year old boy. Nero knows he can’t marry a boy. So instead, he orders that the boy is to be castrated. And then the public wedding takes place, with Emperor Nero marrying a castrated 12 year old boy.

He did a bunch of other crazy stuff. He had a giant piant bath tub made out of one piece of giant rock. He had a revolving dining room. Not revolving table. A revolving room. The gears have been found in which people turned the room that was surrounded by windows. He was like the Dennis Rodman of his times (Justin’s comparison, not mine).

The long rants of Nero fit into this tour of the Vatican, because Nero was the guy that started the persecution of Christians. See, there was a huge fire in Rome, and everyone blamed Nero, because he was a crazyass mother fucker. Literally (don’t you love it when curse words are actually articulate?). Anyway, everyone blamed him for the fire, so he needed a scapegoat. Christians were a minority group that didn’t have much power or sympathy, so he picked them. And would randomly start killing them in crazy gory ways (hence the persecution of Paul and Peter).

I would love to continue writing from memory everything the tour guide said, but it was a 5 hour tour, and that was a week ago, and I’m sure you have other things you want to read. If you want to know more, fly to Rome and take Justin’s tour yourself. It’s all pretty epic - only he throws in tons of pop culture references that I don’t have the charisma to do.

Back to my adventures at Vatican City. After the first courtyard, we wandered to a second courtyard that had a giant gold ball spinning around in the center. I thought it was cool, until I was told it was just a piece of corporate art, part of the contemporary art collection that the Vatican has purchased. Boring. However, the giant blue Pinecone totally made up for it. At the front was this huge blue pine cone. Justin told us it came from Egypt. He told us about the myths of Horus and Mithas and how they appeared close to the time of Jesus. All 3 characters were born from Virgins, had 12 followers, were killed as a sacrifice so save humanity (or their own people at least) and then rose again and gained immortality. I learned most of that from reading Tom Harper’s book ‘the Pagan Christ.’ As far as I know, Horus and Mithas were not peace loving hippies who preached about breaking down borders, loving neighbours, helping the blind and the poor and having empathy for all including prostitutes and neighbouring nations. As far as I know, that’s a Jesus original. But all the supernatural stuff about being the messiah was just hopeful myth stuff that had been floating around the near east for hundreds of years. The pine cone was a symbol of Horus’s fertility that he brought back when he rose again. Since Horus is pretty much Jesus, of course the Vatican will have a huge statue of Horus’s fertility (phallic parts) displayed in their courtyard. Totally makes sense. The people who want you to believe in Jesus, boast about artwork that declares him a myth. Nice eh?

After sitting in courtyards for about 90 minutes, we actually went inside to the Vatican museum. Wow, just wow. The museum is made of over 2000 rooms, I think we saw close to 40. I was completely overwhelmed. We focused on the ancient and classical time periods, Justin doesn’t like contemporary or modern art (and I was ok with that).

The first room was a long long hall of marble statues. Greek and Roman busts and statues, of gods and emperors and important people. There were atleast 5 different heads of Marcus Aurelius, one full statue of him in gladiator clothes, one with him just about naked with bear skin drapped over his shoulder. The room was crazy long, and the floors and ceilings were intensely ornate. I would have stayed and taken pictures of absolutely everything if I could have. That was one of my favourite rooms and we definitely needed more time there.

We walked through several smaller rooms with pots and smaller sculptures. The sculptures stick out most in my mind because they were 3D. But everything about the Vatican museum was innately rich. The ceilings were covered in designs – sometimes actually carved, sometimes painted to look 3D but actually just shadow work (if this hadn’t been pointed out by our tour guide, I never would have known. One of our co-tour goers was so convinced the angel over a doorway was 3D that he leaned against the wall and looked up to disprove it to himself. The floors were made out of semi-precious stones and materials, or sometimes covered in a mosaic or a fancy rug that was roped off. Wall hangings were everywhere. And real gold was used throughout. I was impressed by the amount of stuff we were allowed to touch – though I didn’t touch any of it. I saw many others touching, but I knew I’d probably set off alarm bells or something.

What’s important to keep in mind, is that the Catholic Church is one of the richest, most powerful entities in the world. The essentially ruled the world for 500 years (400AD to 900AD) and were pretty much absolute rulings. Now, they’ve been taken down a notch, but they are holding their power quite well. So I really can’t overstate how dedicadent this was. I don’t care if you have a rich relative with a mansion in orange county, the Vatican museum would make that look like a shack. Seriously. Imagine the most glorious riches and treasures in the world, and stuff it into one room. You’re now imagining a small piece of the Vatican museum. Gold fricken ceilings.

After a few more rooms of various artifacts and riches that Popes likes to collect, we entered the 3rd courtyard which was an Octagon. Elaborate columns and designs and floor mosaics decorated this place, and giant sacarfagi were placed in the middle to look like bathtubs. But the real winners here were statues – in particular 2. Justin called them the body and the face. “The Face” was the statue of a guy who was kinda efeminiate and had a cape and was posed to hold a bow. He was famous because his face inspired Michangelo’s painting of Jesus’s face. “The Body” was a Pagan statue of a mythological figure being dragged to Hell by two other mythical Roman figures (I forget who). The chest and abs inspired the body of God on the Sistene Chapel (ya know the part where he reaches out and touches Adam). It’s true. Later on in the tour, Michangelo and pretty much painted that exactly as is. So, Mikey’s version of God is a Pagan creature from Roman myths, and Jesus is an effeminate dude. Pretty scandalous. Justin was also clear to tell us that Michangelo preferred the company of men, and was open about his preference for the male figure. He loved painting men, but didn’t really like painting women. His “women” looked like men with breasts. Once that was pointed out, I realized it was pretty true.

Then we went into the room with “The Torso” This was a chewed up and gnarled scrap of a statue. It didn’t have a head, arms, legs, butt or anything other than the front of a torso. But Michangelo thought it was so beautiful that he used it to inspire dozens of ab shots in his Sistene Chapel. He just used different angles of the torso. So we analyzed it to remember later on.

The more interesting part (to me) was what surrounded the torso. It was in the middle of a room, and was rope off. You could walked all the way around it. The ceiling was a giant beautiful mural. Around the perimeter were tons of Pagan Goddesses. So many! And nearly all I had never heard of before. I was so excited. Maybe I’d find the patron Goddess of Academia! I liked Pallas (Athena) and all, I mean, she does stand for wisedom. But she also stands for war. There was one doing leather work, another with a ball and stick, and some just playing vogue. I took tons of pictures.

The next room was designed to look like the Parthenon from the inside. It had a large dome in the top, and lots of Pagan and Roman figures in little alcoves all around the sides. Today, the Pagan Gods that were on display in the Parthenon are not there, as it’s not a Catholic Church in dedicated to Saint Maria. But the Catholic Church likes art of all kinds, so the Pagan gods are in this replica. Only, they weren’t all Pagan Gods, some were just important figures, and a few statues were just things that looked cool. One statue in the far corner stuck out. While all the others were white marble, it was yellow bronze. And it was crazy tall. Supposedly, it was found by fluke, not that long ago and not that far from the Vatican. It was of a man, but he had a fig leaf. Justin told us that originally, he didn’t have a fig leaf – nearly none of the statues did. But up until this point (and actually, throughout the whole museum), there were no male statues that were without their fig leafs – unless they had nothing to hide. Years ago, the Vatican created the “Fig Leaf” project, and either removed or hid all the male genitals in the museum. By remove, I mean cut off. Wonderful metaphor for how the church makes people repress their sexuality. And it creates an excellent opportunity for conspiracy theorists to imagine a secret room with all the cut off parts.

What was even more interesting than the giant bronze man, was the giant purple bathtub in the center of the room. Supposedly, there is a giant type of reddish-purple rock that was found about 3 days from Nero’s Palace. He demanded that the rock be taken and carved into a tub for him. It wasn’t really much of a tub, most like a swimming pool on giant iron feet. I’d say it was 12 feet in diameter at least. Justin told us that the purple/red rock currently sells for 950 thousand dollars a square centimetre, it’s that rare. I had certainly never heard of it before.

But there was even more in the next room! Two giant tombs. They probably didn’t contain as much material as the bathrub, but they were taller, and carved more intricately. Supposedly they were used to bury the mother and daughter of an Emperor of Rome (or maybe a Pope, I forget).

The overall theme here is to realize that the church which supposedly preaches things like “piety” and “charity” loves to collect the most “gody” and “gaudy” of things and the most materialistic pleasures in the worlds. Silly Catholics.

At this point, I started to get overwhelmed. Room after room of crazy materialistic wealth. Boastful luxuries and extravagant things. How was this tour supposed to help the church? Oh right, because the tour is usually given by someone who works for the church. Usually, non-religious cynics don’t give the tour. But, I’m glad I was given a tour by a non-believer, it was so much better this way. Up to this point, most of our touring has been of Jewish sites, and by people who very openly talk about their political and worldview leanings – which are not in particular against my views, but are not in particular with my views. Having a tour guide who saw things on my level was awesome.

Some of the other rooms we saw were the hall of maps. This dude walked around Italy and sketched the coastlines, went home and made about 30 giant maps of the Italy – before modern maps were made. It was impressive. There was also the climate controlled Hall of Tapestries. Everything up to now had been in boiling heat – there was no sun beating on it, but it was insanely humid in the museum. The church decided to cheap out on the air conditioning, with the exception of in the Sistene Chapel and in the Hall of Tapestries. The Tapestries were huge, and nearly all made by Flemish people. Two near the end were creepy – Jesus’s eyes would follow you, like in those creepy paintings. I have no idea how it’s done, but it was freaky.

Shortly after the Tapestries, my father-in-law wanted to see the Raphael paintings, but some of us wanted to eat. Justin said we could go to the cafe, while he made a special trip to the Raphael gallery. I really wanted to see the stuff done by my favourite Ninja Turtle – but I was starving. I had only eaten that puny breakfast at the Yellow cafe, our tour started at noon, and it was 2:30pm.

Seriously, the Vatican Museum cafe is crappy. You go down all these stairs, past a few junkie souvenior stands of religious books and maps, past the Sistene Chapel entrance (there’s a separate exit), and down more and more stairs. It’s a little room, with two standing tables and no chairs. And the food is overpriced and gross. If you go for a Vatican tour, pack a lunch. My fiance’s brother and mother were with me. My brother-in-law ordered a turkey sandwich, so I did too. It was a white bun, with deli turkey and melted mozzarella. For way too many euros. Melted cheesed on turkey isn’t kosher – which didn’t expect the cheese before ordering. I peeled it off successfully on one bun – he at the turkey, his mom at the cheese, I ate both on the second sandwich. It was pretty gross. Then we went up half the stairs to stand outside the Sistene Chapel to meet the others, only they went a different way and ended up at the cafe, so we went down and up again and then finally in.

After so much hype, after so much talk about Michangelo, and Pope Julius II who commission the ceiling to be painted, it was kinda a let down. I mean, it was great. It was pretty – as far as paintings so. But it wasn’t all “wow, ahh, whoa” like I expected. Maybe it was because I didn’t have my glasses and it was really really high. I mean, it was really detailed and cool. But I didn’t really see the big deal over that ceiling, and the various ceiling murals we had seen throughout the museum. The ceiling mural over the Torso statue in the room full of Goddesses almost caught my eye more. I preferred the style of that mural to Michangelo’s style. I guess it had huge historical importance and set the stage for later ceiling murals. But as far as ceiling murals go, there’s been progress made. This was kinda hectic and insane looking.

Yes, God touching Adam is in the center. But when I was told they were in the center, I was picturing them being larger than all the other figures, they’re not. There’s like 18 panels, in 3x6 rows down the ceiling, they are in the most central one. But there 17 other panels, even more details and colourful. God and Adam didn’t draw my eye in and didn’t impress me like I thought they would.

Justin had lots of cool stuff to tell us. Like how Michangelo was actually a sculpture, not a painter. And this was done with fresco painting, the most difficult style of painting, because you need to finish each panel before th plaster dries. Mikey really hated this medium and had no desire to do it. Somehow, he got blackmailed into doing it. Him and Julius II were kinda at each others’ throats (I forget why, but Justin explained it). Michangelo went off and stayed away to avoid the crazy Pope. He started doing work for other people. The Pope Julius II wanted Mikey back (well, wanted to gain from Mikey’s reputation). At the time, all chapels had ceilings painted as blue skies with stars (like the Basilica in Montreal). The walls were painted by someone else besides Mikey – there was a layer of Pope pictures and various other panels of Jesus and Moses and other dudes. Julius II decided that in order to get Mikey back in town, he’d commission him to paint the ceiling at something other than stars. Michangelo wasn’t interested, but than Julius threated exile, so then Mikey begrungingly agreed. To pwn Julius back, he stuck lots of crazy stuff in the ceiling. In the ‘bottom’ of the middle row, there a guy that looks like Julius. There’s two guys behind him, the guys are kissing and having their thumbs pushed through their fists – which was supposedly the equivalent of flipping someone off. Julius didn’t see this (I could barely see this until Justin told us). Julius’s reaction was a pleasant one “Hey you painted me!” In actuality, people now believe that was Mikey’s way of showing two gay men flipping off the church. And that’s just one of 18 panels, there were tons more stories like that. Michangelos had moxy, let’s just say that.

After Michangelo painted the ceiling, the Pope Julius II gave him the gift of never having to paint frescos again. Mikey agreed, because he hated painting and especially hated painting frescos, so he agreed. And Julius loved it because that meant no one else would get a Michangelo fresco ever again, and he knew he had a quality piece. But, a few years later, Julius wanted more, and went back and asked Mikey to paint the front wall of the chapel. Mikey resisted, until he was blackmailed with exile again, and then he agreed. So then he painted a huge wall mural. It had Jesus in heaven with his dudes, and some dude making out with each other. Then there was purgatory, and then there was hell at the bottom. Justin pointed out the scandalous things Mikey snucked into this painting (that Julius never caught onto) and that was pretty hilarious. Like bam, there’s a gay couple in heaven. Gays in heaven, on the wall of the Sistene Chapel. How exactly can the Catholic Church condemn homosexuality with such a blatant advertisement of it?

The artwork didn’t really impress me much –even though I really wanted it to. The chapel was crazy crowded with people, and some security dude kept going “sshhh” mega loud every few seconds so it broke any attempt at tranquility. I guess it would have been awesome back in the day when this was the Pope’s private chapel, but now it was a tourist stampede and it was kinda exhausted of its awesomeness. Of course, it might also be because I didn’t have any glasses on, and I can barely read road signs when they’re a block away. Or maybe I just don’t like Mikey’s style, or his taken on the religious stories. Or maybe it just really wasn’t what I expected because of the 18 little panels when I was really just expecting a giant God and Adam that would be the focal point.

The cool part that did impress me was knowing that I actually was in the room that Michangelo was in. All the other places we had been to – all the churches and all the ruins are just skeptical – like “this might be where the holy of holies way” etc. Ok, the Coliseum is legit – fine. But it’s skeptical whether so-and-so were really there and stuff. But we know this actually happened, and Michangelo was the dude to do it. And that’s cool.

Aside from the paintings, Justin had lots of other stories for us too. He talked about how this one time, a Pope was riding in a carriage going through some woods, and had a lot of stomach pain. He said he was just going to head for the bushes, and then disappeared. The carriage dudes came looking for the Pope, and discovered the Pope giving birth in the bushes. The Pope was totally a chick, and was murdered. Ever since then, when a new Pope gets voted in, the voting happens in the Sistene Chapel, and all the voters are locked in for days. When the Pope is selected, he sits in a special chair, and every gathers around. A doctor kneels down, puts his hand up through the hole cut in the chair, up through the Pope’s robes, and feels the Pope’s junk. Yes, the Catholic church is a winner (in the Charlie Sheen way). So, we were standing in the very spot where men get their testicles examined in front of other men in the name of patriarchical jealousy. Sweet.

After just writing that paragraph, I just realized that in order for a pregnant Pope to happen, someone must have had sex with a Pope. A lot of Pope have probably actually had sex, and that wouldn’t be that unusual, and they wouldn’t get caught unless they died of syphilis. But I wonder what happened to the guy who got the female Pope pregnant. I wonder if he was surprised. Was he expecting a male Pope? So scandalous.

After some long minutes in the chapel, we exited out the back entrance. We went out the foyer and stairs that is where the Pope voters would exit after having decided the Pope (and would burn black smoke if the vote failed, white smoke if a new Pope was decided). Then we were outside and in a huge pretty area. To the left, there was a souvenior shop filled with nuns in white habits, selling crosses and rosary beads and religious paraphernalia. Then we would around some stairs, and entered St. Peter’s Basilica.

No matter how hard I try to explain this, I won’t explain this well enough for you to picture how large this church actually was, because it’s the largest church in the world. Therefore, unless you’ve been there, you haven’t seen something so large. I only saw the main chamber. At various basilica’s (like in Montreal), I’ve seen the huge main area, and then various smaller chapels and alcoves. Perhaps this only has a main area, but just the main area could have swallowed about 6 of the main areas of the Montreal basilicas.

We went in a bit to the right, and there was a huge, soccer field sized area, with some marble walls and fancy ness all around. We swung through to another soccer field sized area, then we spotted a huge football sized area in the middle. At the front was another big space that was closed because mass would be starting soon. It looked small, but when you got closer, you realized that only ¾ of the church was currently open, and we had only looked at the right hand side of that ¾. Like, intense.

And, it gave the decadence of the Vatican museum a run for its money. There is 9 tons of gold used in the ceiling and decor of the church. Why? Because 8 tons wasn’t enough. (Ok, that’s quote by my tour guide). The Catholic Church was pretty good and stealing and pillaging marble and gold from places like the Coliseum, so marble was pretty darn abundant too. And it wasn’t just layers of gold smeared all over the place, everything had to have an insanely intricate and awesome design. At the front, in the closed section was this huge, bronze canopy. It was easily 25 feet tall. Supposedly, it was the market of St. Peter’s grave. Pretty gnarly. Of course, St. Peter was the first Pope. He was the guy that spread Jesus’s message and was considered to be the human embodiment of the church. So after his death, and Papacy was born, and every Pope after him is supposedly the human embodiment of the Catholic faith. So this church was the tomb of tons of other Popes.

There was a Pope who had his body dipped in bronze after his death, and then he was dressed. The tomb is open – you can see his bronzed dead body. There was a Pope who had himself dipped in wax – that was grossed. I supposed his skin was already old and sunken in, but the wax probably didn’t help, he was pretty gruesome in his open tomb. Thankfully, those where the only open tombs. Most ‘tombs’ were fancy marble statues, and decadent plaques stating what the Pope’s accomplished and the virtues they wanted to embody. It was hilarious to see “piety” and “humility” next to a tomb made of ivory and gold. And of course, the more money the Pope’s gave to the church, the better their graves. Some Popes were known for doing much, and their tombs were puny.

The ceiling of this place was insane. So glittery, and so tall. Designs sparkled from above. And the dome, who doesn’t love a dome? But by now I was started to take the domes fro granted – they’re kinda common in Rome. Overall, it was the pinnacle of decadence, the center of luxury in the irony that is the Catholic church.

We exited the St. Peter’s basilica and looked out into St. Peter’s Square. Justin pointed out windows where the Pope does Easter and Christmas mass, and his bedroom window where he looks out on a regular basis. And then we learned that the Vatican was named that because the location is on Vatican Hill. Vatican Hill was named after the Pagan Goddess of Death, because it was the site of a huge Pagan burial ground back in the time when burial areas were outside of towns for sanitary reasons. So the Catholic church’s symbol was a Pagan symbol. Pretty common in Christiantiy, but still funny.

St. Peter’s square really wasn’t much to look at, except for the Egyptian obelisk in the middle. Oh, and there were 2 fountains.

The one thing I’ve noticed on this trip so far is how unwhelmed I’ve been by religious places. In the past, churches would wow me upon entering. The big church in Quebec City, the basilica in Montreal, even the (fake) Orthodox church inside the museum of civilization in Ottawa all put me in a state of “awe” when I enter. I especially love the fake church in the museum, with the all seeing eye on the ceiling, I can exit and re-enter and get the same feeling over and over. It’s spiritual, it gives me goose bumps, it’s something that’s been on short supply on this trip so far. I’ve felt it in non-Christian places, like the Hindu temple in Ottawa (the upstairs at least). And places don’t need to be “fancy” to give that feeling, the little chapel at St. Thomas University would give me that feeling from time to time.

So far on the trip, I have seen the Western Wall. I have been close to the Dome of the Rock. I have overlooked the Baha’i Gardens. I have been in the Church of the Holy Sceplecure and St. Peter’s Basilica. I have been to countless synagogues, and more holy sites that I have ever seen. But at all these places, I have felt nothing. The wall, was just bricks. No tingle, no goose bumps, no awe, no feeling. Blank, nothing. The Church of the Holy Sceplecure, where Jesus was crucified, nothing. It was gaudy and tacky and the stairs were falling to pieces. Down the quiet quarry was better, but still nothing close to what I’ve feel elsewhere. Nothing spiritual for sure. St. Peter’s Basilica was majestic and beautiful – but in a secular way. The same way I am amazed by water fountains in shopping malls, is how I was amazed by the gold in St. Peter’s. The Baha’i gardens were too perfect, it felt like the evangelical church back home, drippy with cult-like control and dogma. It was so beautiful, it was nearly disgusting.

Only one place on this trip so far has given me the spiritual goose bumps. The place across the street from our tunnel tour exit in Jerusalem. The place at the start of the Via Dolorosa. That quiet, serene courtyard, where the sense of tranquility washed over me, and I just *knew* that I would be safe there. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t the simple beauty that gave me the feeling. It was the sense of calmness, or self-assuredness. I loved it. It was “a sacred space” like I learned about in my intro religious studies class 9 years ago (wow I’m old).

Maybe I was looking too hard, or expecting too much out of the “advertised” sacred spaces. Or maybe the crowds of people took away from the moment. The quarry under the holy sceplecure was quieter, and the best place to feel something. Maybe I just don’t like lots of people, or maybe I’m used to spending time on my own. I don’t know.

All I know is that if you are like me, and if crowds detract from your enjoyment of spiritual places, then maybe you shouldn’t get your hopes up too high about feeling someting at all these sites. I asked my fiancé and he did feel something at the Western Wall. He didn’t think it was weird that I didn’t “because you’re not Jewish” he said. I feel like I know enough about why it’s important that I should have felt something. He brother said that just confirms that I should be an atheist – since all these multi-faith places gave me nothing. It’s interesting to say the least. If there was a God, you’d think he’d help a pilgrim out.

But that was Friday. The day I went to the center of the Catholic faith, and could totally confirm that I most definitely did not want to be a part of that crazy ass religion.

The one thing I could believe in? People. That’s why I’m a humanist. It was the power of people who have saved me in the toughest things I’ve ever faced, and it’s humanity which brings me my greatest joys in life.

The way back from the Vatican was rather uneventful. Justin left us at the gates, we walked maybe a kilometre to a subway station, looking at shops and enjoying the sites along the way. I really wanted to do some shopping, but all the shopping was either crazy high end, or really dinky tourist huts that sold identical cheesy postcards, useless trinkets and tacky t-shirts. We took the subway 6 stops back, getting tickets was better, and the ride was easier. Me and my fiance’s brother were defiant and didn’t take seats when it was empty – by the time we got to our stop it was crazy full but us standing helped.

As we walked through the Rome train station back to our hotel, I was tired, and a bit whining. My fiancé just kept saying “Ahh, poor muffin” and then I’d say it back to him – thus created the catchphrase of the trip. The only other catchphrase to emerge so far was the “Rainmint” business that occurred when I admitted that I feel like my life is “Everyone Loves Raymond” and my fiancé is Raymond, because everyone loves him. I said this after the day with Richard when I nearly peed myself between Masada and Ein Gedi. I create drama and fuss, my father-in-law scruntizes things and is usually late, my brother-in-law complains and tries to opt out of everything, and my mother-in-law sometimes has bouts of claustrophobia and panic. The characteristics of the 4 of us change the decisions the 5 of us make – we exit the tunnel tours a certain way, or change where we eat, or something. But my fiancé never causes a fuss, never asserts his opinion and honestly, literally just goes with the flow. He never complains, he is the mellow, non-dramatic center that keeps the rest of us together. It’s never about it. We always do things and make decisions based on someone’s fear or preference or excitement or judgement other than his. So he’s never the focus, but he’s the really enjoyable travel companion who is crazy adapatable and will do anything. And, we fit the demographics of the characters from the show – with him being Raymond at the center.

Of course, when I explained this, my fiance’s dad misheared and thought I said Rainmint, he’s the Rainmint. So his brother and parents would teasingly call him the Rainmint. Few days later, (perhaps one day in Rome) I explained that his brother was clearly Robert, because he always grumbled about things. Then they got it straightened out and knew what I meant. But calling him the Rainmint and saying, “You can’t complain, you can’t be upset” had stuck. The previous night, when the Italian waiters were being flirty and he didn’t like it, his brother said that he couldn’t complain or be upset because he’s the rain-mint. So it continued.

We were crossing the street in front of the train station and he went to dodge a car and smashed into me (he didn’t know I was standing so close). We got across the street and were teasing each other, and somehow I got sprayed with water. I think he used his insulated water bottle to spray me – he thinks something dripped on me. Either way, I attempted to retailiate by spraying him with mine, but I missed. He sprayed me good, and then fell behind to dodge. I walk for a block and attempted revenge, then a full-out water fight was on. His family was walking ahead of us, his dad started to take photos. I got one good shot at his shoulder, and many many blocks, he had me drenched. A few doors down from the hotel, I took the lid of my water and dunk him, he did the same to me. We walked through the outdoor restaurant next to our hotel shrieking and laughing and dripping. Thankfully it was nice and hot in Rome. I was so happy to have my water fight.

When we got back from the Vatican tour on Friday afternoon, I crashed and fell asleep in the hotel in Rome. It was nice with only 3 of us in the room and the other 2 down the hall. I woke up and tried to blog as much as I could, knowing that dinner time was beyond my control and I wanted to post what I could before getting on the boat the next day.

However, I started to get crazy hungry. I was the only person who had eaten 2 meals (no one else except my fiance’s brother had “lunch” at the Vatican cafe, and he skipped breakfast). My fiance’s dad likes to just eat two large meals a day and nothing else. My fiancé can go hours and hours between meals. I’m the opposite. I can’t handle large meals, and I get hungry frequently. I like small portions, every 3-4 hours. Not binge feasts twice a day. So, living with a family which is not biologically mine, and being around people who have very different eating, sleeping, and energy cycles than me can be really hard. We all try to accommodate each other, but I a completely different animal in some ways.

So, I was hungry and wanted supper. It was like 6pm, but we had to wait for his parents. Two hours before that, we had been tossing around a kiwi (gently) when my fiancé threw it hard and it bounced under the double bed. Right in the middle. Impossible to get.

So I was whining about my hunger. In Jerusalem, we had a kitchen of food. In Zefat, the hotel was stocked with at least coffee and tea and things to snack on. In Tel Aviv, I could walk and buy food for myself (I could do that in Jerusalem too). But here in Rome, I didn’t know my way around. The neighbourhood was NOTHING but little hotels and Trattorias – sit down restaurants. I didn’t see any grocery stores, or fast food, or convenience stores. I didn’t know of any bakeries or markets or shops. I knew the train station – which was a decent distance away, and even then – I had only seen high end shopping there. I was not used to traveling like this – on the road all day without snacks. I was dependent on when all 5 of us could coordinate to eat, and that coordination was a headache. I ended up sulky, attempting to eat my fiance’s arm we he wouldn’t get the kiwi for me, and then I stormed off, out of the hotel room and when down to the lobby and drank 3 glasses of the complimentary orange tang.

A few minutes after my last sip, my fiance’s whole family showed up. They were on their way to dinner. My fiancé told them I went to dinner by myself. That’s what he thought when I took off. We went right across the street to dinner. It was nasty. I was sick of pasta and tried the chicken, it came on the bone and was really not very good. For dessert I split “raspberry cheesecake” with my fiancé – don’t ever do that in Rome. It was ricotta cake with tangy, gross red sauce on top. So disgusting. But given that I had been starving, I was in a much better mood by the end of the night.

The one good thing about that restaurant (other than the waiters who were trying so hard and were literally running through the place all night to keep up with the huge crowd), the bathroom sinks were operated by foot pedals. It was amazing. There was a faucet in the normal place, but the only way to turn it on was by the metal pedals at the base of the sink – one red and one blue for hot and cold. So neat.

And that was Friday in Rome.

Rome in a Day

2011-09-03T02:27:00.005-04:00

We started today off with breakfast across the street. The poor waistress, I felt bad. She was told we were in a rush, so she gave us the cheque first. Then people kept changing their minds, and then when 4/5 meals came with a drink but only 3 people wanted them, my father-in-law insisted on getting the 4th free drink, so that changed the bill. By the time something was changed for the third time, she was really shooting us dirty looks. I had the French toast with honey and banana. It was unlike any French toast I’d had before, and a much smaller meal than I was expecting – but that was good. I was sick of huge portions.

We went back to the hotel lobby to wait for our tour group. There’s a little room with couches and juice and magazines. I thought the magazines were hilarious, especially the one with the guy with a gross mustache and no shirt with his arms wrapped around a girl. So gross, but stereotypical Italian. I attempted to read the magazine with a cute baby on it, all I got was something to do with the People’s Republic of China.

Like Israel, there are cats in Italy. Unlike Israel, the cats are not super skinny alley cats. They are fat. They are fat Italian cats. Like Garfield. It’s just about hilarious. Unlike Israel, I have yet to see a dog in Italy, even though I thought the little dog in purse was an Italian stereotype. Maybe that’s just Paris and LA. Maybe.

The stereotypes that are realized in Rome are sometimes hilarious. As we were waiting for our tour guide, we saw lots of “metrosexual” men with purses, skinny jeans and designer sunglasses. We saw lots of high fashion women with arched eyebrows. We saw lots of working men in suits. And we saw one older man, with a cream colored suit, cream colored hat, and jewelled walking cane hobbling down the sidewalk. He was wearing tons of rings. We’re pretty sure he was a mobster. It was awesome.

Of course, there were some things we didn’t expect – like how all the “service” workers were visible minorities. As we stood in our hotel lobby, about half a dozen Philippino women ran back and forth with laundry bags and cleaning supplies. Our waitress at breakfast had also been Philippino. I wasn’t up to date on my knowledge on Italian immigration – I hadn’t realized there was such a huge influx of Philippino workers here.

Then we met our tour. We booked a private tour for 7 with another couple who is going on the crusie with us. We had a large van. Our tour guide was Marcello. Like most Italians, he was dressed up, and had designer sunglasses. He didn’t have a suit jacket though. He looked like Tony Stark in the Iron Man movie. His smile reminded me greatly of a student I had from Romania, but his eyes reminded me of the Italian prof at my university. He talked very fast, and the others kept asking him to slow down. I liked right to find words to “translate” like “our plane was late” “airplane tardi” I don’t know if that was real Italian, but the words I came up with seemed to work.

The first place Marcello took us to was the circus maximus. This was basically a large elliptical dent in the ground, the size of a huge sports stadium. Marcello had lots of wonderful photographs that he used to illustrate the site and explain what we were looking at. This was the site of the first gladiator fights and horse racing. Beyond the huge track in the ground was a bunch of ruins that was described at the Emperor’s home. Across the street was something that looked like a Pope’s statue.

Next we drove by some formally Pagan Temples that have since been converted to Catholic churches. I liked the circular building with columns that was referred to as the Temple of Heracles. There was also a few fountains and other pretty things. We also saw some more “modern” churches about 1000 years old that were covered in Marble. Marcello explained that the church steals the marble from all the Pagan buildings and public buildings. Crazy evil church.

Next we parked again and climbed up a huge ramp that was decorated with statues of Roman gods. At the top, the various stages of Roman history were explained to us: King Romulus, Roman Republic with Ceaser, Roman Emperor with Marcus Aurelius, The Roman Catholic Church, the Facist Era with Mussolini, and the new Democracy. Two eras of Senators, kinda neat.

Supposedly, Rome was founded by two twins Romulus and Remulus. They were abandoned and raise by a she wolf. Both boys grew up and founded a city on a hill located in modern day Rome, but were originally two unique cities. Eventually the twins became jealous of each other and fought each other to the death. Obviously, Romulus won and became the first King of Rome. After citing that myth (which I had heard before) Marcello said something I didn’t know. The “shewolf” is translated from the word Lupus, which also meant prostitute. It’s thought that the twins were actually taken in by a prostitute – which makes more sense, but kinda ruins all the statues of two boys suckling on a wolf’s belly.

Speaking of the shewolf statues, we saw lots of them, especially when we climbed this ramp to Capitol Hill and saw tons of them. There was lots of fountains here, and tons of ornate statues.

We were told that Capital hill is currently where the Mayor of Rome holds office, but that’s not why it got its name. Originally, it was the hill at which executions were done – with capitatation as a central method. Kinda gross. Kinda very Roman. Marcello told us the Museums to either side of the hill we were really worth looking at and we should do it sometime when we were here longer.

Then we walked to the right behind the Mayor’s office. We stood on a roadway that overlooked a lot of ruins – the Roman forum. This is where the Ancient Senate was held, it was the center of commercial and business and governmental affairs in ancient Rome. Now, it was a bunch of columns that were white and a few brown archways, basically a huge archealogical site (but the whole city was like one archaeological site). Our guide pointed to the left and told us that one of the buildings was either the actual building, or built upon the site of Julius Caesar’s home. That was really cool. I think it was the actually house, it looked old enough like the columns.

Then we walked back to where the van was parked and into a building. We climbed two sets of marble stairs and up onto the roof of the building. Turns out, this was a former Pope’s residence (before the Pope moved to Vatican City I’m assuming) and the view was amazing! We could see lots of domes and various sights. That view was worth getting a tour guide. We saw something that looked like a coliseum, which was actually an ancient theatre with a third floor of modern design. When it was built, it was made for lower status housing. Now the housing there is crazy expensive.

We left the Pope’s home and then went on a little driving tour of various statues and fountains and obelisk and Egyptian columns with hieroglyphs. One of the places we drove through was the Venetian Square. I was in the back, and didn’t hear the explaination for why it was important, but we saw it.

My descriptions of Rome are less intensive than the descriptions of the Jerusalem architecture simply because it’s far too complex. The buildings and fountains, and columns were all so ornate, with carvings and grooves and details that I couldn’t take it all in, and certainly can’t write about it in that make detail. The other thing I’m straining to do justice on is the plethora of ruins everywhere. I can’t possibly write about them all, because they were extremely common. It definitely added to the beauty of the city, and many of them were pointed out and explained, but far too many for me absorb. Let’s just say that the ancient and modern are one – the modern is an appreciation of the ancient – with designer sunglasses (of course). It all worked together.

I believe our next stop was the Coliseum. As we drove up, Marcello took out photos of then and now and explained the history of the structure. He also explained that the brown-ish ruin was once sparkling white marble – the big “bullet holes” in the cracks of the surface were actually where the Catholic church used iron rods to drill and pull off the marble to decorate their churches.

We had prepaid tickets, so Marcello drove around it once, showing us the gate we’d enter, and where he’d park to meet us in 1 hour. We had to walk about 300 meters down a cobblestone sidewalk before entering the grounds. It was crazy packed, thousands an thousands of tourists swelled the area. Even more annoying than the huge crowds, was the solicitors. I can’t tell what ethnicity they were – most were men with dark brown or black skin. If I saw them in the USA, I’d think they were Puerto Rican and African American. Perhaps they were Caribbean and African, but perhaps they were from elsewhere. I don’t know. But they were all men of color, and it appeared to me that there was a huge racial segregation of social class in Rome. The men walking around in business suits and with designer clothes, and eating at the same places as us appeared ethnicity “Italian” with olive/tanned skinned and the Mediterranean features. No “Italian” was seen pandhandling, and no man of color was seen doing anything but panhandling. I understand that every society will have people on every rung of the social ladder, but this huge segregation of race was alarming to me. It made me wonder about Italy’s immigration policies, and if there is some glass ceiling that keeps visible minorities from climbing the rungs of the social hierarchy.

So there we were, amongst tons of men, trying very directly to sell their stuff to tourists. Some had little camera tripods of all colors on blankets, some were holding pretty sun parasols, some where holding stuffed animals and trying to force them into the hands of others. Most didn’t talk, they just walked up to tourists and tried to use body language to get their wares into their hands. Once they approach you, it’s really hard to get them to walk away. They are extremely persistent. I whizzed through the crowd, knowing we only had 1 hour.

After walking 300meters, we crossed the road and were in a large cobblestone area the size of a parking lot arond the coliseum. There were more solicitors here. We went under a fantastic marble archway, walking clockwise around the outside of the Coliseum for about 1/3 of the circumference, and then went around the two huge lines of people buying tickets and went straight into the middle.

We were in the base of the rim of the structure, the ground level of the stadium so-to-speak. There was an entry way that pointed into the center of the circle at ground level, but when we walked passed it, it was labelled exit, and others were skeptical. We kept walking around the inside of the rim. You couldn’t see much from here, it was like you were walking around the vendor area of an NHL arena. The flow of people led us to a huge set of stairs. It was only “two” levels up, but each stair was the height of two regular steps. Crazy Roman feet. My knee had been great so far on the trip – I made it through the entire Israel leg of the trip without incident. If I blew it out after seeing the Coliseum, that’d be fine.

We took the stairs up and up, and continued to walk around the inside of the rim. Various artifacts were on displays and movies were playing, and it was like the inside of a museum. I’m sure many people just stay in this section all day – reading and looking at little things. But thats’ not what I wanted to do. I wanted to actually see the inside of this place! I hadn’t even glanced at it yet. And we only had an hour, c’mon! My fiancé pointed out the walkway that took us to the inside of the rim, and we went for it.

So cool! We were essentially standing in the grandstands of the 2nd most upper level. The 3rd level had mostly been destroyed. A few stairwell remained, but they were all chain off, and not in nearly good entire as the internal ones we had just climbed. The inner floor was partially covered with what looked like parquet flooring, but was mostly bare, showing the labrynth below where lions and other creatures (my fiancé said Minotaurs) were kept to fight the gladiators. It was really a cool site. It was weird, for a pacifist to rejoice in being in a place where people fought to the death for sport. But I was a pretty huge professional wrestling fan before, and I did go and see a UFC pay per view earlier this summer at a spors bar. So it’s kinda the same thing.

We walked around the inner perimeter of the upper grandstands and took pictures at al angles. It was really neat. Then we climbed down the huge stairs inside the rim, and were on the ground level again. We peeked into the circle at this level and could even walk around a small section. One of the people on the tour with us pointed out the huge Christian cross that marked where the emperor would sit to watch the games. He got a pretty good seat.

We left the Coliseum, walked back up through the cobblestone “parking lot” and up the sidewalk with the solicitors. That was really hectic. We got to the point at the wall where Marcello was to meet us. I had his business cell phone and called him as he had instructed me. “Chao Marcello!” “Chao! You are done! I will be right there!” Easy. Except that now we were standing still, and not moving, with tons of men selling cheap wares coming towards us. One walked directly up to my fiancé and held out what looked like a green rubber duck toy with multicolour plastic hair. He kept demonstrating how it could be squished into various shapes. Thankfully, Marcello was there in an instant, and we escaped. As we drove away, I glanced at the window of some of this insane products. I saw a guy through yellow squishy toy around to demonstrate it to kids. Atleast the parasol and camera tripods were useful.

Next, we drove down the Appean way. It was the Roman road to Naples and the first of its kind. Driving around old Rome was very bumpy, but this was particularly so. Very narrow, with tall walls that were covered in fines. Marcello gave a small presentation, and then we moved onto lunch.

He took us to Il Pomodorino for lunch around 12:30pm. He said that by 1:30pm, it would be packed with locals – and it was. It was a great place. It was big and open, with cool air conditioning, and a huge (I mean huge!) menu. We had a sweet older man as our server. He had thick glasses and a grey mustache, bronze skin and a huge ear to ear smile. He didn’t speak much English, but just smiled with his eyes and mouth enthusiastically.

There were 3 sections of pizza options. First was “white pizza” then “tomato sauce” pizza, then “topping added after baking.” My fiance’s brother went with Mahgerita in the tomato section – just mozzarella and tomato. My fiancé got Mahgerita with buffalo mozzarella in addition to cow mozzarella. I got Mahgeriate with both mozzarellas and prosciutto (ham). The “individual” pizzas was crazy big, larger than most “medium” pizzas in Canada, but really super thin, so actually not that much food. However, it was difficult to cut, and the prosciutto just sat in strips on top of the cheese, and looked really greasy. In reflection, I’d get what my fiancé orderd, but not my order again (this restaurant had many many other things, pages of an pages of pasta, and even lots of seafood). I couldn’t finish the pizza, but I tried really hard. I had filled up on the fresh mozzarella and tomatoes that was an appetizer. Fresh mozzarella is amazing. If you haven’t tried it – you haven’t lived.

Right after lunch, we visited the square with a big fountain of Poiseidon. Marcello parked and told us to cross the street, and walk left down a road with the crowds and we’d see it. The “road” we walked down was longer than half a kilometre and was a narrow way of shops and restaurants. The shops were all pretty tacky touristy stuff. Normally, I’d go in and take a peek. But the crowds were so huge, and I was so fearful of pickpockets, that the stores didn’t appeal to me. And in all honesty, I doubted their creditability, some looked so tacky. After walking at a slow pace along cobblestone forever, we came to a large opening.

There was a giagantic marble fountain, with such a huge and intricate display that I couldn’t take it all in. Poiseidon was there, and maybe a fear water nymphs, and much much more. Really pretty. Supposedly, if you throw a coin into the fountain then the legend says you’ll come back to Rome. I definitely wanted to through a coin in, and I wanted to make my fiancé do the same.

As we were walking, trying to figure out how to get “down” to the fountain (if was so huge that you felt close when you were still really far away, but there was actually four levels of stairs you had to go down to get there). A man who looked like he was of Carribean descent with dark skin approached me with 3 red roses. I shook my head and gestured with my open hand that I didn’t want them. He said, “it’s ok! It’s a free gift! It’s free!” and put them in my open palm. He wasn’t like the other solicitors in that he talked. I took them, we walked about 3 steps, and then he said to my fiancé, “That’s a nice gift. How about some money for it?” and then continued to ask. My fiancés parents showed up, his dad gave him a few coins to toss into the fountain, and the solicitor put more pressure on, rubbing his thumb to his fingers. I turned, and handed them back to him – which he took willingly, and then left us alone. That was a very strange (and ill-planned) business strategy. Give away the goods before asking for money? If he had honesty approached my fiancé, saying they’d make a great gift to buy me, then maybe he’d get most customers.

We made it to the edge of the fountain, and each tossed in a coin over our shoulder. My fiance’s dad wanted us to do it again for the camera, but as it was supserstition, I didn’t want to do it, and so we didn’t.

On the way back, we glanced in a few shops but nothing I really wanted to look at. I didn’t trust the shops, and the crowd was seriously intense. Almost back to the van my fiancé and I walked by a woman in blue and white raggy clothes with a headscarf and a baby in wrapped around her in cloth. She was totally a gypsy (Roma) with a baby – just like I had been warning them about (and receiving much teasing for being paranoid). Before the trip, I had read that the Roma (gypsies) were expert pickpockets and also sometimes used their children to gain the trust of tourists so they could get closer and pickpocket. I even read about the gypsies who have (hopefully fake) babies and pretend to trip, throwing the baby at a tourist, while others gather and pickpocket. Of course, you can find that online written up as an urban legend, so others seriously doubted me.

I mean no disrespect to Roma (gypsies). They are essentially an impoverished people who are told by virtually every European country that they don’t belong there. They are denied citizenship, denied access to social institutions like education, and are pretty much driven to a life of panhandling and pickpockets. Of course, they need to be held responsible for their own actions, and the crimes the commit.

I gave my fiance the heads up about the women wrapped in blue and white, looking disoriented and slowing walking through the crowd. We avoided her. We had just got into the van when I spotted her crossing the street in our direction. She walked really close to the van and walked around the whole perimeter of it, following a group of tourists as they walked in front of the van. Our guide spotted her too, and called everyone’s attention to her, and then warned us again about the gypsies.
“See! There really is gypsies with babies who want your money!” I declared. They officially cannot make fun of me, and cannot claim it as an urban legend. It’s real. It’s sad, but real.

Then of course, we saw the high-end of Italian living. We drove into the shopping distract, and wow. Dior, Dolce & Gubbana, Armani, Tiffany, they were all outdoor shops, facing streets filled with women with shopping bags. We were told that by 5pm the neighbourhood would be packed. It was neat to see a few stores we have in Ottawa, like Zara and Sephora.

We made a turn, and saw the opposite side of the coin. It was a relatively empty street in terms of business and cars. Buidlings without store fronts or visible entries towered on both sides of us. A blue guard rail lined the left side of the road, and between the blue guard rail and the grey building were men. Black and brown men, squished together, facing the opposite way we were driving. They were wearing work clothes and t-shirts, and looked tired and impatient, standing in queue for something. Perhaps they were waiting to get work placements for day. They were all relatively young and healthy an strong looking – perhaps it was a job site that was looking for general labourers. The sick realization of the drastic social problems in Italy hurt my stomach a little. Where were our tourism dollars going? As tourists, do we make this situation better or worse?

Our next stop was another piazza, with another fountain. Marcello parked again and directed us to make a right turn. It was less intense here, with less pandhandlers. A few cute shops around. As we turned towards the piazza, we saw an obelisk and lots of artists, selling their wares.

In Zefat, Israel, I had a hard time finding art that I liked. In Rome, I had a hard time finding art I didn’t like. There was easily 3 dozen or more artists set up, like a flea market but more spaced out and pretty. The site of the market itself was pleasing to the eye. I didn’t want to get too close, I didn’t want to give false hopes, especially since most pieces were large and I knew I couldn’t afford them. I do want some art for my office, but I was expecting to buy a mass produced art print poster – not a geuine piece. Most of the work was Italian landscapes, so I was in love. There was funny caricature artists, and one stunning and amazing portrait artist that made me gasp. It was so beautiful, it was such amazing work. I only saw one artist with prices, 10 euro for little post card size duplicates of her work. Not exactly worth it, but I wanted something to remember this place for, and I was hardly getting to do any shopping. I bought a little sepia colored duplicate of her oil painting of the coliseum (the original color postcard size was selling for 70 euro).

At the end of the artists’ section was a huge fountain (of course. They are everywhere here). As we were walking, we heard whistles and chants, and gradually saw people moving in with blue flags with green, red, and yellow circles on the flags. The artist I bought a duplicate from said, “Oh my. I was so into my book I didn’t realize a demonstration was happening.” As we walked back to the van, we saw more and more people with the flags walking towards the piazza. Marcello explained that it was a protest over pensions and job security and the failure of the Italian economy. Oy. As beautiful as Rome much be to live in, it certainly has a lot of money problems.

Then we stopped for gelato, the actual, real, Italian kind. So fun. We each had two scoops. My fiancé had chocolate and hazelnut, the chocolate was dark in color, and tasted like thick sundae syrup. I had peach and almond – he tried my peach and didn’t like it, but liked the almond. I thought the almond was sort of tasteless and wouldn’t get it again, but I loved the peach.

Marcello next wanted to take us to the Christian Catacombs. I was game for that. But, the rest of the crowd was more interested in seeing the Jewish Ghetto. So that’s where we went. Supposedly, there was a synagogue worth seeing that is now a Hebrew museum, but it was closed and we’d need to pay 10 euros a person to get in. Given that we only had 30 minutes, it wasn’t worth it even if it was open. So, we walked around a few blocks, most were residential, but there was one strip of shops. We saw restaurant canopies advertising Roman Kosher food and Roman Jewish Dishes written in English. We also passed a large silver shop, like the huge silver shop I saw in the Tel Aviv airport (which is the only airport I’ve ever seen with a silver shop). But the rest of the place was pretty quiet, so we didn’t spend much time there.

Our last stop on the tour was the Panthenon which was originally built to worship the Pagan Roman Gods. Later, it was taken over by the Catholic Church (of course!) and dedicated to Saint Maria. It was the stereotypical Mediterranean temple, with huge columns in front, a peaked roof with writing on the front, and stairs leading up to the entrance. Once inside, you could see the many alcoves that were once places of statues of deities, but were not filled with Christian propaganda. A huge domed ceiling and tons of intricate designs on the walls and ceilings made it simply impossible to take it all in – especially after such a long day.
Rome was not built in a day. And Rome cannot really be seen in a day. But we tried really hard. I would love to go back to visit various sites in more detail. We really just whizzed through everything that I couldn’t absorb it as much as I’d like.

Marcello then drove us home, and presented us with a gift from the company of white wine and postcards. That was cool – even though I haven’t seen a post office since Jerusalem, and my hopes of mailing home post cards has been crushed (I’ve been walking around with a post card I bought at the Dead Sea ever since I’ve been there. Sorry Mom, I’ll probably mail it from Ottawa when I get back). The days of touring have been so long that we don’t have free time for shopping or wandering, or picking up snack foods (and the meals are so spread out here! I’m so hungry most of the time). But it’s so worth it. There is so much to see and do, and I’m glad we’re getting to take in so much.

I know I love Italy, but I’m not sure why. Especially Rome. It’s all about anger, greed, and lust for power. Drivers are crazy, it’s really urban and packed and busy and fast. It had a facist era and sided with Germany in the wars and is built on a history of evil Emperors. Everyone is really extraverted and exhausting. Everyone is into fashion and expensive materialistic stuff and smoking. (Way more than Tel Aviv. So much, Tel Aviv seemed like hillbilly station. The fashionable girls in Tel Aviv seem out of style and backwards compared to Rome.)

But there’s something that draws me in about Italy and Rome. I love that everyone is direct and blunt and so real. Emotions are not repressed here. Israel was the land of the Super Ego – everything was confined and controlled. Canada is the land of the polite, passive people who never speaks their mind. Everything in Rome is ruled by the Id. When they want to express themselves they do. I feel comfortable showing affection and showing joy and excitement. And maybe this hedonistic orientation towards the Id is why the food is so dame good. I also love the language. I love the role of art and the appreciation of good art. And the architecture is amazing.

The architecture is probably the home run here. Back in Ottawa, (or any other city), when they want things to look nice, they introduce one or two elements of Roman architecture – cobblestone, columns, exterior trim work on buildings, grooves in the stone panelling, archways, mosaics, domes, a fountain, European shutters, marble-like carvings, etc. And all of those things improve the atmosphere dramatically. Whenever I’m around stuff like that in Canada, I’m happier. In Rome, those things are constant. I actually, literally, saw more foundations than I could take pictures of or count. There were tons of domes and archways, and beautiful intricate designs was the default rather than the exception. Everything was picture worthy, and that’s amazing. I could stay in Rome forever and just take pictures of ruins and archways and buildings and I’d be completely happy.

I saw a lot more today than what I’m writing about. Many times, Marcello just pulled the van up to a beautiful building, or monument, and named what it was and gave a few sentences about it. Sometimes these were major things, sometimes not. But there was way too many to remember or even keep track of.

After the tour, we rested for a while in our cramped hotel room. After my father-in-law had complained the night before, the air conditioner in the room was better, but not great. My fiance’s mom was particularly disappointed in the heat, and after his Dad went to talk to the front desk again, we were offered a complimentary second room. They couldn’t “change” our room, because they didn’t have another room that fit five people. So instead, they were letting us keep the current room, plus have a second room (with 4 beds). The second room was crazy cooler. According to my brother-in-law’s thermometer, it was 21C, versus the 26C of the other. So, the parents moved over to the new room, which was cooler, and had a bathroom door that closed (and locked!). That made things way easier and more relaxed.

We went out to eat, I convinced the group to go around the corner to check out a new place. The host had made me feel guilty about staring at the menu so long, when the others wanted to go elsewhere “because they’re all the same,” I tried to argue to stay “because they’re all the same” and we’ve already bugged the host for several minutes. So, we stayed. The menu was great, there was tons of selection, more than at any other place. Lots of cheesey pastas that are kosher style for my fiancé. He liked the optioned. I wanted to order the rigatoni with broccoli, but they were all out. I settled for the ravioli with sage butter. It was good, but not what I was in the mood for. The “free appetizer” was yummy though. A male server came and put a plate of bruschetta in front of me, and I hesistated to take it. We hadn’t ordered it. He said, “Don’t worry, it’s free, from the house!” I took it. He came back with a second and third plate and put each in front of me to take saying “Free from the house!’ “From from the house!” he picked up the first plate again and gave it to me again, “From from the house!” We all laughed. It was funny. He was good at his job. He walked by again and with the 4th and 5th plates and did the same. It was a good joke. He walked by a third time with nothing, but reached out his empty hand to me and said, “Free from the house!” Too funny.

When others asked for more water, or more utensils he would say, “No!” with a big grin and then get them for us. It was a hoot. I loved the hospitality. Out of everywhere we have dinned so far, this was the winner by a long shot. So funny and so nice, it really made it more than a meal.

Of course, everything had limits. The server was really only joking with me and my father-in-law. He started doing “flirty” things like smiling and winking at me. I knew it was just a schtick, but it wasn’t one I liked to be part of. I mean, I was giggling and smiling and being nice. I was enjoying it. But on the deeper level, I knew it was just going to hurt my fiance’s feelings. I started to put my arm around him, trying to make him feel better.

We decided we wanted desert. I flagged the server. “Do you have a desert menu?” He put his hand to his chest and said, “I am the desert menu. You can have me!” and winked. Oh boy. When he returned with actual paper menus, he said, “is this your boyfriend?” gesturing at my fiancé. “Yes.” “He’s not good enough for you. You don’t want him,” and smiled his charming smile. Whoa buddy, that’s over the line. We placed our orders, my fiancé was (very rightfully so) upset at this. Him and his brother discussed using “fisticuffs” and slapping the guy with a glove and declaring a duel. I tried to do damage control. Thankfully, the non-English server who wasn’t flirty came and delievered the deserts. He was shy and gave us a reticent smile, saying the deserts in Italian and looking unsure.

We were seated outside and it was a gorgeous night. I was happy and having a great time. Of course, the one thing that puts a dent into that is the panhandlers. It started with a Mexican band of two guys – with sombreros and the whole act. They set up on the sidewalk, played 3 songs and then walked around their hats. My father-in-law gave them something. After they left, a black man walked by with a fist full of flowers. I avoided eye contract, I didn’t want a repeat of what happened at Poiseidon’s fountain. Just as soon as he walked away, another black man walked by with stuffed animals and toys. He stopped at our table for a long time, I think he was demonstrating something. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t.

We had trouble getting our bill (like always) and when we did, there was something suprising on there. In addition to the 5 meals, the wine, and the 2 deserts, was a $7.50 charge for 5 quantites of something. Did they mistakenly charge us for the ‘free on the house’ appetizers? Was it the tip? It was called coperti. My father-in-law was upset, assumed it was the tip, and declared they wouldn’t get a tip. I insisted on asking about it – so we’d know for the future. I flagged down the flirty server, asked, “What is coperti?” He said (with a very honest face), “It’s cover charge.” “oh” I said. We had been charged cover to eat outside? He could tell we were all surprised. His facial expression went sympathetic, “Where are you from?” “Canada.” “Welcome from Canada,” he said with a smile, knowing we weren’t expecting the charge, and then walked away.

When we got home, I researched it. Coperti basically covers the bread and table clothes and utensils. It’s not an “added” cost. Instead of charging $15 euro for a meal, they charge $10 euro for a meal and $5 for coperti. The Italian government passed a law permitting it a few years ago, and most restaurants have gone with it. Menus should indicate if they charge it or not.

And that was Thursday, my day in Rome.

Tel Aviv to Rome

2011-09-01T12:35:00.006-04:00

I decided that Tuesday was going to be my work day. I needed to work on my post doc application, and so I thought our day in Tel Aviv would be it. I got up before the others, took a key and went for a walk around the Ben Yehuda neighbourhood. It’s so swanky. We were above a bridal dress store, there were 3 bridal dress stores on the strip near us. Nearly every second store front looked like beauty salons. There were other, less prestigious stores, like a cleaning supplie outlet, a laundry mat, a newspaper store, and many different restaurants and cafe and pizzerias. I walked down two blocks and when to a bakery and bought a crossaint for 8 shekels and then walked home.

Much like the night before, everyone looked hip and trendy, and nearly everyone had a dog. There were a few alley cats around too. Women on bikes were all on the sidewalk – one would pass nearly every five minutes. I don’t blame them, driving with the cars on the street would be a suicide wish. The weather was cool in the morning – I was able to wear jeans the first time on the whole trip.

I worked from 8am to 11am when the others started to get up and get ready for their day of touring. My father-in-law commented on the scream he had let loose in the night. Turns out he has a very different impression of Tel Aviv than me. Last night while we were sleeping, he went for a stroll around 11pm, and the cosmopolitan, urban setting threw him off. He saw a grocery store with an armed guard and he admitted to feeling very uneasy in the city and very different than he had thus far on the trip. Then he came home and had a nightmare about someone sneaking onto the patio, and screamed and woke us up around 3am. When they decided to eat out for breakfast at 11:30am, I went with them as my “lunch.” The neighbours peeked out as we headed out and down the stairs behind the bridal salon, it again made him feel nervous. I started to question the safety of the area – my fiancé said that he thought it wasn’t the “nicest” area of town. Certainly, it was no cushy, senior citizen friendly German colony like we had in Jerusalem. But on the way back from lunch, there were videographers and tons of princesses in the bridal salon. We were certainly not in the slums.

I’ve noticed gradually at the service workers at restaurants have completely lost patience with us. They start out charming, but then they just turn irritated. We went to a cute little breakfast place. My fiance’s parents had Israeli breakfasts, I had lox, my fiancé had a big breakfast of eggs. The coffee my father-in-law ordered came as a cappicino. Various cultural differences led to a clash of understaning between him and the waitress. (Cappincino is the default here. If North Americans want coffee, they really should order “Americano”). Then there was an issue with trying to give the staff all of our change, including the 1/10 of a shekel pieces that the restaurant didn’t want to accept. The staff were completely frazzled by the time we left.

I went back to the apartment, took my time packing and organizing my suitcase for the trip to Europe, and then launched into my work. Compared to some of these blog posts, the 4 page post doc application really wasn’t that hard – though it’s two days later as I write this and it’s still not done, but it’s much closer along.
While I was working my fiancé and his family went to Indepedence hall and joined up with a birthright group to watch a presentation. Then they went to the museum about the military operations in Israel prior to the formation of the Israeli Defense League. My mother-in-law described the IDF’s predesscor as “more offensive rather than defensive” and that the museum was experiential. As a pacifist who isn’t into nationalism, I thought it was probably a good day to miss. I was told by the others that they walked through the museum which was presented in front of them. The presentation was in Hebrew with actors, so they listened to interpreters and commentators in English through headphones. Some of the walking was cool (like on the boat and over a bridge) but parts were lame like sitting on a rock to hear a story. My fiancé has tried to convince me that I’d like it. Either way, I knew I’d need to take at least one day out of the month to work.

Another perk of taking the day off was to rest up. We had a 5am flight to Rome on Wednesday morning, but we had to catch our ride to the airport at 1am. And we had dinner planes with my fiance’s cousin at 7:30pm. When we were supposed to sleep, I wasn’t sure. So I used the afternoon to get a jump on that. I also walked back to the bakery in the afternoon and spent the last of my shekels on pastries for late night snacks and mid-night breakfasts. Again there were women on bikes everywhere. All of them were dressed so trendy and hip. Like they were straight out of the eco-friendly, hip area of Toronto.

Everyone came back around 5pm, and we started weighing our luggage obsessively. We needed all the bags to be under 20kg. My bag at the start of the trip was 13.5kg, now it was 15 or so. It was also really tiny compared to others, and I couldn’t remember travelling much with it and it ever being over 15 or 16kg. Everyone else’s was 18, 19, 22, and 25. People started juggling around what they could carry. They needed me to take stuff because I had weight to spare, but no volume. I didn’t want to break my suitcase’s zipper. I didn’t. But I broke the pully handle, which is great when the suitcase is too heavy to lift and more heavy than I’m used to.
For our last meal in Israel, we went to an Israeli meat restaurant with my fiance’s cousin who lives in Tel Aviv. The food was really good. It was an excellent last meal. The menu said chicken stew, but it was actually chew legs that had been marinated (stewed) in a really rich gravy, sitting on some yellow jasmine rice that was incredibly savory. We also shared a pitcher of lemonade and a pitcher of water (see the post about Monday for how this is really trendy in Israel). There was a giant mirror on the restaurant wall that let us people watch in the evening of Tel Aviv. It was neat.

We went back, finished packing and tried to sleep. I tried to catch up on my blogging. I’m so behind! Then we got up at 12:30am, and went down stairs for our ride. And waited, and waited. I was grumpy – it was the middle of the night, my suitcase was broke, and I was worried about this driver. My fiance’s dad had just stopped a taxi and we were considering taking 2 cars to the apartment (which would have been expensive) when the shuttle pulled up. A gangly little man with short grey hair popped out and started talking fast in aggressive Hebrew to us. He knew very little English, and was a stereotypical Israeli through and through. He was actually quite rare from our experience.

He shouted at us to get in, get in! I was confused. He wasn’t going to take our bags? Don’t they go in the back? Nope, we had to climb up and into the van, with several steps, with our bags. And he wasn’t going to even assist. I certainly wasn’t going first. My suitcase was heavier than ever and I was a wimp. My fiancé went first, then I shoved my bag up. I grabbed the very first seat – I wasn’t pulling this further than I had to. My mother-in-law set her bag on the stairs, and the driver yelled at my fiance’s brother to pull it up. Then my father-in-law did the same, but now all of us were blocked in my luggage and couldn’t access the stairs to pull the bag up. The driver didn’t want to do anything except keep yelling in Hebrew. Another passenger got up and pulled the back in. I was completely flustered by this point. What the hell was going on? The only thing the driver really said, was to ask how much we were going to pay him.

He drove really slow carefully – this is good quality except when you need to catch a flight and the driver showed up 25 minutes late. My fiance’s father tried to tell the driver he was late, but he didn’t understand and kept being really weird. He made fun of a Mercedes and talked in broken English that made no sense. I was sitting right behind him, and he really stunk. Like really. The only thing cool about the drive was that we drove by “tent city,” which was a huge protest about the cost of living in Israel and cost of housing. That was pretty cool.

Then of course, was the Ben Gurion airport. Now that was an experience. Before you even reach the airport – about 15 minutes before hand, you go thorugh a check point. A guard in a yellow vest comes onto the shuttle and looks us all up and down and says, “Are you a group? Are you a family? Where are you coming from? What passports do you have? Thank you” That was easy and pretty laid back – probably because we were a family from Canada.

We got into the airport and it was madness. We saw that our airline was at the A section. At the A section there were huge lines going up to an x-ray machine. We wanted to stay together, and when they found our we were a family, they made sure we all stayed together. I was getting tense. I heard the Israelis analyze facial features and body language and I kept hearing personnel telling people to “calm down” even though they seemed calm to me. They wanted to know if people had ever been to Israel before and if they spoke Hebrew.

We had to show our passports like 3 times before we go to the x-ray machine. Then yellow stickers were placed on our check bags and our passports. One at a time, we loaded our bags onto a conveyor belt. Bags come flying out with a huge ‘whoosh’ at the end. I was 2nd last, and when my bag came out, the girl told me to go in a line up to my right. I assumed the others had too, but they were all standing off to the side.

There were 3 lines, she repeated that I could go in any one, so I picked the shortest. About 12 people were in the 3 lines all together, pointed at a little desk. I was concerned about what was x-rayed in my luggage, then figured it was just a random check, then realized everyone else in these 3 lines were not Jewish. Or, at least they were not Semitic, Askenasic, or Sephardic. There was a Chinese couple, blond swiss girls, arab guy, and other goyim and me. I was aware that I was probably getting my face analyzed on a security camera, but I tiffed off at that. My ticket had been booked with my fiancé, yet I was selected for the goyim line. Wow. Just wow. The other four were standing maybe 30 feet away. We had not even gone to the check in counter to get our boarding passes yet, that’s how intense our security was. I was holding them up. I looked at my watch, it was 2:30am. Our flight boarded at 4:05am. We’d make it, but this was frustrating.

My fiance’s Mom came over to hand me the travel itinerary in case I was questioned. Then she stood with me. A few seconds later, they created a “new” line just for me, behind the ribbon. I was waved up. The sticker on the back of my bag was scanned. I was asked if I had books (yes) and did i buy them in Israel or were they mine. I said I had them already. And then I was waved away and told I could go forward.
Then we actually picked up the boarding passes. It took forever, the longest check in ever. I explained to others about the line of goys, I knew I wasn’t off the hook yet, but wanted to let them know what I had noticed. Then we had to put our bags up to get weighed. We were excited, especially after the two nights of weighing we did. Everyone’s bag was 19.5kg except mine which was 16.5kg. Of course, I put it up 3rd, and the clerk told me. “No, we’re doing the other family first” and I had to take my bag down and was reweight last. Even though we were all bought together. So confusing.

Next was the normalish security of metal dectectors and carryon screening, which was a breeze. Easy. Then people checked out our boarding passes one more time and that was it. We got to the terminal with enough time for a snack and then we left. Next time I go to Israel, I’ll wear a magen david at the airport. Crazy racial profiling!
On board Airbelin, the only “free” food was terrible rolls with barbarian deli meat. The others who took it couldn’t eat it. I opted for the paid breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and mushrooms. Yes, it was 5am, but I was aware I probably wouldn’t eat again for a while, and I needed something substantial in my stomach. The German flight crew were hilariously stereotypical. So blond and with braids. The male attendant had an attitude and wasn’t helpful at all when we were concerned about making our transfer with only a 20 minute window. The girls started to roll their eyes and scoff at my fiance’s dad when he asked a bunch of questions. They were in general really cold.

We landed in Berlin at 8:20am, and our next flight was taking off at 8:55am. I pushed ahead, and got to the front of the plane and realized I had to go down stairs onto tarmac. Then, there was a bus waiting for us. I jumped on, pulled the others up and we drove leisurely to a gate. We ran through ground doors, into passport control. My father-in-law pushed to the front, explained there was five of us, and got instructions on where to go. I barely over head them. I handed over my passport, got a German stamp and was told, “you heard that right?” I said yes and took off running. I made a right then another, then through security again. I beeped at the metal dector, which NEVER happens. I was wearing jeans without a fly and I never went off for any security check points in Israel, or ever when flying. A blond female security personel was nice, asked if I spoke English, and gave me a pat down. The wand beeped at my hips and my ankles (wtf? There’s nothing there!) and then I was free to run to my gate. I raced to the terminal. I needed gate 62, but the entrance to gates 61-63 was blocked by a huge line of people boarding at 64 and 65. I cut through them, got my boarding pass scanned and ran back out into the tarmac, up some stairs and onto the next plane. I was on the plane at 8:40am. I was impressed with the effiency of the Berlin airport, until the second flight didn’t take off until 9:25am. All that rushing for nothing!

The second flight was short and uneventful. We landed in Italy, were welcomed by large paintings and a model of the luggage system (which was neat). It took a while, but we got our luggage no problem, and then went through the green section of nothing to declare and were on our way. Customs was non-existent and so I didn’t get an Italy stamp.

Our hotel had sent a driver for us. He was a man in gray suit with green tie and green tinted designer sunglasses and he led us through a 10 minute walk to a nice van and drove us to the hotel. By the van, I was expecting something impressive. Well, not exactly.

People watching was fun. Within minutes of landing we saw tons of priests, and a man with a Mario mustache in the airport. The drive to the hotel allowed us to see nuns on the street, the Coliseum, St. Paul’s stuff and more, though we could barely understand the driver (and knew much more Italian than I realized and started trying to speak it instantly). It’s fun. We passed lots of modern glassy architecture, and some really cool innovative styles that rivalled what we saw in Tel Aviv. There were tons of signs for the Gay Village. And then there were lots of Cyprus trees and vineyards on the way in.

The area we’re in is near the train station and full of very “European” looking buildings that are attached and tall. We pulled up outside our hotel and deboarded with our luggage. Getting across the street with luggage was hectic, the drivers here are worse. Every city, the driving gets more and more insane. A nice peach colored hallway and stained glass archy greeter us – as did 3 sets of marble stairs. Getting luggage up the stairs was insane. Thank goodness we only had to go halfway and then there was a freight elevator.

We entered a really tiny room – for five. Sharing a room with my future in-laws was definitely not on my bucket list, but everyone has been trying to make best of it. There’s two twin beds pushed together, one set of bunk beds, and a fifth bed in the corner. My fiance’s brother claimed the one in the corner. I was prepared to take the top bunk, but the metal rungs were crazy, and lately I’ve been using the washroom a few times a night. I didn’t want to go up and down a few times a night with 4 people in the room and lots of pressure to be quiet and smooth. Everyone thought I’d probably fall and hurt myself. My fiancé and his brother were not used to bunk beds and completely freaked out at the idea. Everyone except me hated the idea of the bottom bunk because it seemed “claustrophobic.”

The sleeping arrangement ended up with me on bottom bunk, my father-in-law on top bunk, my fiance’s brother in the corner, and my fiancé and his mom sharing the two twin beds pushed together. That’s what I called hilariously awkward.

I was starving and exhausted, and somehow just collapsed on the bottom bunk sometime mid-afternoon for a nap. After a really disorienting nap, we woke up around 6pm, starving, dehydrated and much too overheated in our tiny room. Thankfully, my fiance’s parents had their bearings and took us down to the restaurant beside the hotel. Making it down the marble stairs was difficult; I was so out of it and my body in great need of nutrition and hydration.

Thankfully, Italian food was to the rescue. The staff was overly friendly and marvellous. So much nicer than what we’ve been receiving. So warm and charming. But that might be because ordering was easy and we all went with 1 of 3 specials they had listed, the spinach ravioli, the meat lasanga, or the veal. My fiance’s brother declared that he was going with the meat lasanga (a big kosher no-no) because he wasn’t in Israel anymore and he could. He said, “I’m no longer Jewish anymore after this.” My fiance’s parents took that comment considerably well, commenting on the 21 year old’s recent interest in atheism. I had the meat lasanaga as well, served with fries. The fries were MacDonald’s fries, or at least made to taste exactly like it. Good, but not what i expected. The lasanga quenched my hunger and was amazing. I missed non-kosher as well. Sure, I had bacon and scrambled eggs on the early morning flight as I sat behind an ultra Orthodox couple, but that bacon was gross airline food. This lasanga was heaven.

Of course, the lasanga wasn’t nearly anything compared to dessert. We almost didn’t have dessert because we were “stuffed” but when I saw the chocolate torta del giornno I knew I wanted some. I wasn’t prepared for the rich, complex taste of the cholocate liquor inside. Maybe because I was starving and a bit crazy before the meal, but this was amazing.

My fiancé had ordered the spinach ravioli with white wine. Then he helped me with the chocolate liquor cake. Then his father convinced him to indulge in the disgestif – after meal liquor. The waiter came with two small glasses of lemonade colored liquod, and warned them it was to be sipped, not shot. I had a small sip, it was incredibly strong. No one could i handle that.

We were all in good spirits, laughing and smiling. The guys had just finished their drinks and we ordered the cheque, when a second waiter showed up with 5, yes 5 disgestifs. We explained we had already had them. He apologized, then said in a charming hospitable well, “Well, if anyone gets drunk I’ll take the blame,” and then left the drinks with us (which we were not billed for). We all made a vigilant ever to consume the drinks, but amongst the five of us we only drank 3 full ones. I barely consumed 1/3 of the drink that was given to me. It was much too strong in my stomach, the chocolate liquor cake had already made a nice dent on me.

We walked out of the restaurant, (me holding my slightly drunken fiancé). It was cooler and breezer and twilight. How could we not check out the neighbourhood? I mean, we were in Rome! We were in Italy! Amazing! Like a dream. My fiance’s brother went back to the hotel, and four of us made a few loops through the neighbourhood. We made a loop to the northeast. Everything was hotels, crammed together in tight, European style buildings of about 6-7 floors. It reminded me of housing in Boston, only with flatter decor of more diverse colors. Store canopies and restaurant patios decorated the sidewalks, vespas and little cars scooted by. Crossing the street was cognitively demanded because everyone drove so fast. After a small loop to the north, we walked towards a Saintly tower and then kept going towards the train station. We walked through the train station (me and my fiancé holding hands and smiling the entire time). People watching was fun, and looking at the high fashion shops in the train station was ...so Italian. We looped around the train station, passed a big ruinic wall, and then up through neighbourhoods of hotels again to ours. By then, my fiancé could walk straight on his own.

We went back to our cramped little hotel room. The bathroom sliding door didn’t want to stay shut for me to take a shower. We would pull it shut, and it would creep open along the tracks a few seconds later. It added to the hilarity, considering the bedroom was so tiny and the bathroom was at one end – making the happenings of the bathroom visible to everyone in the bedroom. My fiancé had the idea to open a cupboard door to block the little gap in the door way. And sometimes the door would stay shut – though not when I flooded the bathroom floor again when taking a shower (So far I’ve done that in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and Rome).

And that was Wednesday.

Touring Israel

2011-08-31T15:05:00.007-04:00

Monday was our last day of driving and touring with our Driver Guide Richard. He's really an interesting guy, and is an excellent guide (which is why I'm including his name in my posts).

On Monday, we woke up to a huge breakfast at the Ruckenstein Inn. We left our cute little quaint bedrooms and stumbled over to the dining room where the proprieter told us about her days in Los Angeles and being a chef, and many other stories as we ate toast, 3 types of homeade jams, omelets, cinnamon buns, herbal tea, orange juice and more. I loved it.

Then Richard picked us and the luggage up and took us to "Old Zefat." He told us about the Rabbi known for bringing about the Kabbalah movement, how blue is a sacred color to kabbalah, how Madonna tried to buy a house nearby and was turned away and no one would sell to her. How there is a huge festival once a year in name of the famous rabbi, and the public square we were in was the place of the festival for people who couldn't make the commute to the Rabbi's grave on the adjacent hillside.

We went into a synagogue. I had to put my shawl around my arms, and we looked at the kabbalah themed stained glass windows. Then we headed for more art galleries. And by more, I mean tonnes. Easily four dozen. Probably much more. Jewelrry, sculptures, woven fabrics, metal works, and of course, hanging photos and art pieces. So much art. So little that I'd actually want to buy. I still wanted that piece from Pinisky's shop, but I settled on a (much cheaper) peace mandala about kindness and love with two doves on the front. On the way out of Zefat, we stopped at a candle shop. Very unique. They made Disney figures into candles and put them on a giant Noah's Ark that was also a candle. They made little book candles (book burning anyone). Also, a bible and a synagogue candle which I thought were pretty sacreligious.

One of the coolest things about Zefat was the guy at the Yemeni food place. He had a long thick beard and curly head and an interesting headdress. He was making a type of flatbread with herbs, garlic and light toppings. He compared it to various international breads and put on a really good show for us as he made it. Then he dared us to bet how many times he could flip it in the air, and then we sat down to each at in his little store front. Just when I sat to eat, he said, “One moment. I need the girl up here. I have a job for her.” I stood, and he took a bunch of cloth, wrapped it around me and said, "Now you look like Sarah!" I looked at myself in the mirror. I had a white shawl of cloth drapped over my shoulders, and grey cloth around my head. I guess perhaps this is a Yemeni head dress. It was really fun.

We left Zefat and headed for Akko (Acre). Since we left Palestine the day before, we had only been in primarily Jewish areas, Zefat was nearly entirely Jewish. Akko had a 30% Arab population, and Richard took us to eat at a falafel place in the Arab section of town. Outside of Jerusalem, the Arab/Jewish relations seem dramatically less tense. Everyone seems to live in a bit more harmony, and I liked that. Still, it was great to have Richard to order for us and prevent us from performing any social trangressions or taboos.

The falafel was really good, but I liked the lemonade more. Lemonade is really popular in Israel. A typical way of drinking it is to order a pitcher of water and a jug of lemonade and diluting the lemonade to make it go further. The other things I noticed in Akko were the big spongy rocks that lined the medians, and the signs with pictures of horses. Oh, and most Israeli stop signs have a picture of a hand as opposed to a word.

The main attraction in Akko was the old Crusader's fortress that was found underneather another city. It was amazing. There was a giant Knights of Hospitas town with grand halls and courtyards and chapels and everything. Then it was buried, and a few hundred years ago, a prison was build on top of it, then that was used as an asylum, then it was used as slum, and various other things. Someone found a small portion of a path that led underground to older structures, and thought it was a crypt. 20 years ago, that's what they thoguht it was. Then they kept digging around and discovered that the "crypt" was actually a small corner in a huge banquet hall of a gallery, with majectistic archways and columns. So beautiful. They cleared one 20 x 30 area, and noticed the archways were filled in. They excavated them, and it kept going and going, until a huge 50 x 100 dining hall was found. Then another building, adn another.

When we entered Akko, we entered from the modern street level, but took stairs down to the old street level. The outdoor courtyard has been completely excavated, but with the more modern buildings still seen as a cross section. You stand there, looking at four walls of ancient stone, soring above your head. Above them was modern buildings. It was amazing. Even more amazing, is that the excavation isn't done yet. There are still many archways that are filled in that likely lead to more and more. We passed by some areas still being working on. In some of the areas that have been cleared, restoration has taken place to reinforce the archways. It was really cool. Richard gave us some lengthy talks about the history of the place, and the various groups that lived there, and the styles of architecture and more. At one point, he took us through the "secretpassageway" which was below the ancient galleries and ran from corner to corner of the courtyard. It was neat, but kinda a tight squeeze in places. I liked it, my future mother-in-law didn't at all. When we got out, Richard told us that they thought it was a secret passage way until a few years ago - when the latrines were found on one side. Turns out, it was an ancient sewer. Pretty hilarious. I climbed through an ancient sewer. I feel like a ninja turtle.

When we finished the tour of Akko, the way back to the parking lot was filled with shops. Richard had a friend who made old fashion steel plates with intricate designs. They were fabulous - but nothing I'd ever look to own. Then, I finally got to try some pomengranate juice. It was really tart and bitter. We watched the guy make it infront of it. I diluted it with my water bottle and liked it better.

The next stop was Haifa. It was our first "city by the sea" of the trip. Though Zefat kept tricking me into thinking it was by the sea (because it overlooked haze on the hills), there was no mistaking the beauty of Haifa, or the hills. We entered Haifa from the industrial park, and saw oil (refineries?) that resembled the Oil level from Sonic 2 (I took a picture it looked so similar. In the game, the soundtrack even sounds middle eastern). The artchitecture was more eclectic, with stucco and concrete and even some red brick. As we drove into the city, it looked like we drove towards a vertical wall, the hill was so steep. A few decades before, you neeeded to climb the hill from a series of curvy roads. Now, you drive into a tunnel that cuts through the hill. It reminded me of a racing game. When we emerged from the tunnel, we wounded a few windy and hilly roads in some suburbs. I was reminded of the bedford highway in Halifax, because we were overlooking a harbour the entire time.

I wanted to go to see the Baha'i gardens, because people made a big fuss over them. Richard was skeptical - I can see now why. You can only enter the "upper" chamber if you are not with a tour, and you can't see much from there. For gardens, I expected more green. They were sort of like zen gardens, finely and precisely kept. It was perfection to the point of corruption. I didn't like it. It reminded me of the extremes of Istar in my dragonlance books. Everything was symmetrical and pruned and perfect to an OCD level. It was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at.

There's the golden dome which is at the center of the gardens. That's where the founder of the Baha'i religion is buried. There was another building - the house of universal justice where the laws of the faith are carried out. Nine lower gardens were created first, going down levels from the golden dome to the street. More recently, nine upper gardens were created behind the dome, going up a hill as a reflection of the lower gardens. We stood on a sidewalk overlooking all the gardens and buildings from above, but you could really only see the first 3 and then the tip of the dome. We were allowed to enter to the first garden. Orange clay pebbles, large palm trees, small potted plants, and a water fountain were surrounded by marble stairs and hawk statues. It was so pretty, but the next level was prettier. The 3rd level was prettier than the 2nd. It made us long for the next unobtainable level so much that at first we didn't appreciate the beauty of the level we were able to access. I think that says something on a metaphorical level about the design of the faith.

While we were standing overlooking the gardens, we could also overlook the entire city. There were cruise ships in the port, and a giant grain elevator, and the working of a really cute, small city. We piled up in the car and headed for our final Israeli destination – Tel Aviv. We made a quick stop at the Green Cafe along the way – a place I’d recommend to eligible bachelorettes looking for attractive male suitors (hint hint sister).

On the way to Tel Aviv, we followed the Meditarranean sea for quite a bit. I was excited to see so much water after spending so much time in Israel. But I know that from this point on, my trip would literally be focused around the meditarranean. So I appreciated the novelty while I could. We spotted a giant oceanography research centre right on the coast, and that was neat.

Tel Aviv was unlike any other part of Israel. As we approached, we past lots of high tech companies in the industrial park – Google, Intel, Microsoft, and more. The architecture was what you’d expect to see in Silicon Vally, really neat and innovative glassy towers and contemporary styles. I liked the rounded towers.

As we got into the city proper, I had a hard time finding picture worthy shots. The buildings were drab and messy looking. Richard explained that most dwellings in Tel Aviv were 3 to 4 floors with multiple unit and a common garden at the base. We passed dozens of complexes like that, the windows were barred and the concrete was stained. Really not pretty. We turned onto Ben Yehuda street where our ‘hotel’ was located, this was a busy commercial street with lots of shops and restaurants. Very urban and chic.

Our accommodations was a boutique apartment hotel that was above a bridal salon. Two bedrooms with a pull out couch. A really nice bathroom and small kitchen. It was close to the size of our Jerusalem apartment, but not as nice due to the lack of courtyard, but the inside of the place was really nice, though the sofa was not comfy to sleep on.

We dropped off our bags, and went out for a stroll in Tel Aviv. Wow, very different than even what I was expecting. So far, I hadn’t seen a single hipster in Israel and in a few minutes I had figured out that it aws because all the hipsters were in Tel Aviv. We walked down to the marina and walked on a beach looking at the Mediterranean. People whizzed by on skateboards and roller blades. Lots of guys wore surfer shorts and surfer hair. Everyone was so trendy and hip. And almost everyone was smoking. Nearly no one smoked in Jerusalem, but ash trays were all around here. It was so different! I hear people compare it to New York – I’d say it was more like Toronto with a beach, or like how I pictured California, especially since the beach was on the west).

And there was dogs everyone. Nearly every few passes, we passed a dog walker. The drivers were crazy here, more so than in other Israel cities. The cross walks were intense. Eventually, we made it back, and ate at an Italian place. Yes, we were leaving for Rome in 2 days, and we went with Italian. I opted for something different and chose the “antipasti” with roasted veggies and mozzarella. I don’t think I’d do that again. The “veggies” were mushrooms, eggplant and onion. Yick.

We walked back, got preoccupied with weighing our luggage so it’d make the Airberlin standards, and then crashed for the night. And that was Monday.

Golan Heights

2011-08-30T23:57:00.000-04:00

On Sunday, August 29th, we checked out of our apartment in Jerusalem. Meeting our land lady was kinda weird, especially since she seemed a bit impatient with us. I was taking the garbage out, and Richard was pulling in with his van for our second day of touring with him.

The agenda for today was to go "up north" and end the day in Zefat (Tzfat?). We managed to fit all of our stuff in, and that made us pretty happy. My fiance's brother was stuffed in the back with the luggage.

We drove back down through the West Bank and saw the same things we did on Saturday - the desert hills, the Bedouins on white donkeys, the guy with a camel at the Sea Level marker, the special Palestinian license plates, and the crazy garden furniture for sale. My ears also popped like crazy.

We turned to go north and drove through a few Palestinian villages. I definitely never thought I'd do that. Not many people were around, it sort of looked deserted.

Eventually, the terrain was less like a desert, and more like rocky with small green shrubs. Then we exited West Bank and were bank in Israel. Supposedly security was "tight" here, but we never had any problems. They officiers would just nod us on, or ask Richard where we were from. In this instance, he just said we were Canadians coming from Jerusalem, and they let us pass. We never had to show passports, but Richard said that sometimes you have to.

When we go to the first Israeli town, it had been 90 minutes since Jerusalem and we stopped for coffee and apple turnovers at an Aroma cafe (all the guides seem to love going to Aroma. I figure they have a deal with them). drove for 90 minutes. aroma cafe break and apple turnover. Something very strange happened here – the bathrooms were unisex. One door lead to an area with two sinks and two stalls. Men and women used the area together. It completely confused us.

When we continued on, we were driving alongside the border of Jordan for a good 40 minutes. To our left was hilly rocky and shrubbery stuff. To our right was a valley that was dry and brown, then the Jordan river (more like a creek or stream) and then really green grass on the Jordan side. The grass really is greener on the Jordan side.

We reached a place with golden brown hills, and zig zag roads that climbed the steep hills much like the Cabot Trail. It was crazy steep, the van felt like it was going vertical and the corners were crazy sharp. But the view was amazing. Jordan started to disappear below us.

As we were climbing the very steep, very curvy roads up the Golan heights, someone made a comment about the danger of the climb Richard laughed and said, "Between the curves of the road and the landmines, there's not too much to worry about!" My fiance and exchanged glances, "What? Landmines!" And then we passed the "Dragon's Teeth" of large white stones along the side of the road, used to keep foreign forces from climbing the heights. We also passed some jeeps with flags that were memorial sites for dead soldiers. That's the thing about Israel, nearly everywhere you go is a fairly recent battelground.

After we climbed the Golan Heights, we stopped at a lookout over the Sea of Galilee. That was really cool. Richard knew all the details about the evelation - he can tell you how many feet or kilometers above sea level, wide, deep, anything is, plus how populated it is, etc. The perimeter of the sea was 52km I think he said, and we could see it all we were so high up. Very neat. (Supposedly that's where Jesus walked on water. My theory is that he actually just floated in the Dead sea).

Soon, the rocky landscape changed into tall savannah like grass. Flat top trees and vultures swooned about. We passed tombs of people from over 5,000 years ago, which just looked like coffins made out of 3 large white stones.

Our next stop was the Gamla nature preserve. I was worried about the heat after the previous day in Masada. Nothing else on the trip so far has even come close to that heat. Gamla was a breeze- literally. I could barely keep my hat on (good thing it's tied on).

We parked the car and walked up a smooth trail in between tall grass and what I'd call stereotypical African savannah plant life. We watched a few birds of prey fly overhead, and saw some lizards on rocks. We took a short trail to a lookout down over a valley. we saw a pointed, steep peak below us, with some ruins on one side. Richard explained the entire history of this peak, which included many events such as people flinging themselves over the steepest edge of the peak, and the recent discovery that the ruins were of a synagogue (with mikvah) that predated the destruction of the second temple. That's quite a ludicrous finding, given that synagogues did not supposedly appear until after the destruction of the temple. A stream of water ran by the peak. All the plant life was golden brown except by the stream where it was a rich kelly green. It's amazing what a miracle water is.

After looking at the jaded peak and the stream, we turned and walked in a new direction and explored some old ruins of a Greek synagogue (or Greek-speaking synagogue), then spotted a few more lizards and were on our way.

For lunch, we stopped at a strip mall and went to a food court. A very Canadian type of fast food lunch - one of the only incidents of fast food on the trip. My fiance, his brother and I all went for pizza. (of course it's all kosher, which means meatless. I had cheese and green olives). The pizza and sprite was good, but our visit by hornet freaked out the guys, especially when I tried to kill it with a napkin (I have weird reflexes sometimes).

We then drove through a little "border town" in the Golan. Although Israel and Jordan have a diplomatic relationship, Israel is still considered to be at a state of war with Syria (though not much has happened for decades). This border town was created as a sort of hegemonic, alpha male, territorial stance against giving the Golan Heights back to Syria. It was new and modern, and looked very non-Israel. Compared to Jerusalem, I didn't feel like I was in the middle east. I thought I was in northern California or the American mid-west. Lush greenery, stucco homes with red roofs and private back yards. Shopping malls, gas stations. If it wasn't for the Hebrew, I'd expect to see and American flag.

Next we went to the Mount Hermoine Chocolate shop, or Chocolate Mania. I bought a little set of chocolate mountain peaks filled with caramel. I thought it was fitting. The bathrooms here were also “unisex” with 3 stalls and 2 sinks. When I entered, it was just men and me, and i was confused. Then a few ladies were combing their hair. The concept really blows my mind.
Then we continued onto HarBenTal, a formerly active volcano which was most recently used as a lookout over Syria a few decades ago. From the look off, we could see a green Israeli kibbutz, a patch of trees, and then a few Syrian towns. Richard pointed us in the direction of Damacus and talked at length about the history of the military and political action between Israel and Syria.

Underneath the lookout point over Syria was an old Israeli bunker. It was open to the public and we were able to climb down. The downward "climb" gave me vertigo. The stairs were slanted, so it almost felt like I was walking horizontally, not downward. Perhaps because the walls were very narrow, and the metal rungs were going a certain direction. It made me want to let go of the sides and just move "forward" but I knew that would make me actually fall down a flight of metal stairs, so I held on. We walked through about 7 bunker rooms. Richard was disappointed because they had once been decorated as barracks, studies, control rooms, kitchens and dining rooms. Now all the rooms were empty except the barracks, where nothing was let except the bed frames. Richard explained that over the years, people just stole everything. The blankets, the linens, the flatware nailed to the mess table, everything. One room was completely covered in graffic and people's names of who had been there. I wrote my brother-in-law's name and the year. The climb up was easier and didn't give me vertigo.

Then we continued driving. Supposedly we "saw" the border of Lebanon, but all I could make out was a few hazy mountains. The thing about Israel is that the horizon is almost always hazy due to the heat. Visibility is crappy here. It's supposedly only really crystal clear in the "cold" winter.

We then drove through Richard's hometown. Saw border of Lebanon, but not great
When to Richard's home town. His descriptions made it sound really American (movies, post office, etc.) Very English at least. And it looked much like the other border town we had seen and felt like a similar environment.

Next was Zefat (Tzfat?) which was our destination for the night. Our lodging was the Ruckenstein Inn, which was a peculiar little place. It's several little stucco buildings, connected with green turf lawns and green carpet walkways. Outside, tacky lawn furniture covers nearly every each. Fountains, chairs, etc. A 16 year old dog named Ripley's Believe it or Not greeted us at check in. I was concerned that our rooms would be up the huge outdoors stairs, but they were on the ground level. Thank goodness! The rooms were charming. We had robes and slippers, coffee, tea, a fridge. A few strange bathroom with a door that nearly locked my brother-in-law inside, and a wall dividing two single beds from another single bed. And the wall paper was 3D. Really unique.

After check in, Richard drove us to the city centre, gave us instructions for cabbing back to the hotel later, and brought us to the Artist's colony part of town. I went into a gallery by an artist named Pinisky (and met Pinisky, the very eldery man and a lady who was probably his eldery wife). I saw some beautiful work. I feel in love with his blue pomengranate pictures. There was a really nice one, of colbalt blue and medium brown, and flowers, fruits and ancient doorways. I wanted to buy it, but it was in a huge glass frame that I'd never get back. And I'm not exactly in the market for genuine art pieces. There was another piece, not as nice, but on soft canvass that I could transport, and for a much more accessible price. If the had have taken MasterCard, I might have walked away with it.

After Pinisky, we looked into a handful of galleries, but I didn't see anything else that was my style. Lots of various, but nothing for me.

The artist’s colony was really cute, and very quaint. Zefat is built on a hillside. It tricks you into believing you’re at the sea side, because the hills actually are surrounded by haze. So the views are neat. You can tell you’re up high, but you can’t see what’s below. It’s very artsy and romantic and mystical (probably why Kabbalah was invented in Zefat).

When we got tired of the art galleries, we walked up passed a young man selling pomengranate juice, and then up a huge flight of 200 ancient looking stairs. The stairs were all eroded and uneven. We needed to get up them to get back to Jerusalem street, with all the shops and restaurants and cabs. I clung to the metal handrail, but then there was a break in the rail, I slice my hand open on the rusty rail. Some forced bleeding, some baby wipes, some purell, and a bandaid later, we started browsing the restaurants for our dinner options.

When I saw “browsing” I mean it. I’m a decisive person. I make up my mind easily and stick with it. Whether it’s a minor or major decision. I’m used to picking a restaurant and going with it. Not my in-laws. Then scruntize the menus, sit down, ask the wait staff half a dozen questions, and then leave if they don’t like what they here. I’m not used to being seated and then “walking out.” I found it extremely embarrassing. After the first restaurant walkout of the evening, I refused to enter until they had decided it was good. They turned down 4 restaurants before cementing their choice.

And of course, our pick of the night was terrible. I don’t know the name of the place. It was chosen because it had lasanga and air conditioning. We went up stairs, we were the only ones up there. I order falafel and a mango juice. Others ordered. They brought up 5 glasses of water. I waited for my juice. I wandered to the bathroom, which was upstairs. The door was locked. I knocked, no answer. No one else had come or gone upstairs since we were seated. I asked the waitress if that was the bathroom, she confirmed. I told her it was locked. She looked at me puzzled. My falafel plate came by no one else’s food, and my mango juice was out of inventory. I got apple juice. Five minutes later, another plate came, then another. The bathroom was still ‘locked.’ My father in law went in and knocked and hollered. No answer. He went downstairs to get the staff. Just as he did, we heard someone leave the stall and wash their hands. All the food was here now. The staff member went into the washroom and started having a lengthy discussion with the person who was in there.

They continued to have a lengthy discussion for over 30 minutes. It was in Hebrew, but we could hear every syllable. Finally, after we were done eating, they walked out. They were both employees, probably trying to slack off. No staff member came up stairs again, and we had to go downstairs to ask for the bill.
When we were done, we walked through the nighttime downtown of Zefat, and had to walk about a kilometre and a half to get to the bus terminal to hail taxis. When we got back to the Ruckenstein Inn, it was dark, but perfect for indulging in the sauna or hot tub. We actually needed a flashlight to get to the hottub in the dark. And only one little underwater light lit it up once we were there. But it was the best way to wind down from a crazy busy day of driving all around Israel.

And that was Sunday. One of the things I liked best was the crazy changes in terrain. In one day of driving, we saw creamy Jerusalem stone and greenery, rocky hills, Judaen desert, banana trees, mango trees, palms, olive trees and caper trees (where the capers on bagels come from! They actually grow in the Western Wall too).

We also saw a cyprus forest, lush greenery in various suburbs, and Tzfat the artist’s colony on the mystic hazy hill top.

The Dead Sea

2011-08-30T12:00:00.002-04:00

On Saturday, we started the first of three days of travelling with Richard Wolfe, our driver guide. When I was told we were having an English guide, I wasn’t expecting British, but Richard is. Originally from England, he moved to Israel in the 1970s as part of the Zionist movement.

Richard came and met us in the morning with his van, we piled in with our day supplies and headed for the Dead Sea. Before doing so, we eyeballed the back of the van, and were delighted to see that 5 suitcases would fit. We could take all of our belongings with us, all of the way. What a load of relief!

On Saturday, I didn’t realize we’d be going through the West Bank until we were just about there. The security checkpoint to enter Palestinian territory is a non-issue, probably because Richard’s van has certain markers on it, and we were Canadian. I was tense at the fact we had entered West Bank, I honestly didn’t plan to visit the Palestinian areas or the Jewish settlements in Arab and Palestinian areas. But, it was pretty safe.

Richard is pretty awesome. He is an old guy, and really knowledgable. Like, a huge enclyclopedia of knowledge. And common sense too. And with a really nice British accent – so like Enclyclopedia Britannica. While we drove, he was a tour guide and pointed out things and rattled off various facts about flora, fauna, geographical info, historical facts, political opinions, and more.

The first thing we noticed what the Palestinian license plates. They all had little "P" symbols. Richard explained that all Palestinians needed the special plates, and that those plates made it really difficult for Palestinians to enter Israeli areas. Almost impossible in some areas.

The second thing that we noticed was that the terrain had changed and the creamy Jerusalem stone was gone. The dwellings were fairly similar, but different, you could see the Palestinian influence. Everything looked like dry rocky hills. And then gradually it turned into desert. We were in the Judaen Desert. I was excited. I had never been to a desert.

We started to pass little shacks scattered on the side of the road. Bedouin homes, Richard explained. They seriously looked like animal stalls or tin tool shacks. I had to take pictures because I didn’t think anyone would believe without a photo. But that’s what the Bedouin live in the Judaen desert. And they herd sheep and goats, and ride donkeys.

Camels are not that plentiful, and they are mainly used for tourism as far as I could tell. We passed a long stretch of road with clay pots and “garden furniture” piled in greenhouses. The strip must has went for a kilometre. It was a flea market of sorts of tourists, and there were a few camels around that Richard told us people could pose with. But, he had a preferred camel guy to do business with, and I’m glad we took his advice (or endorsement).

As we drove towards the Dead Sea, the elevation was constantly dropping. When the road became level with the sea (thus we were at sea level), there was a Bedouin man with dark skin dressing in white, sitting in the shade. Near him was a sign showing we were at sea level. Also near him was a camel dressed in red, yellow and green tassels. Richard pulled over the van and said if we want to sit on the camel it’s 20 shekels.

I was game. Everyone knew I was going to because I’m a thrill seeker of sorts. But no one predicted how much I was going to sound scared when I was up there.
Let’s get one thing straight: I loved it. I wasn’t actually “scared” but it was like a thrill ride. Now let’s get another thing straight: I had never been on animal before. Not a horse, not a donkey, not a pony. So I think I did pretty good considering.

My fiancé has been on a camel and told me that getting on is easy because they lay down. It’s not that easy, they are still really really high! Like as high as a pony at that point. The Bedouin man (perhaps named Isea) brought me to the left side of the camel with a stirrup. I put my leg in, but it took 2 tries to get me on. At the front of the wooly saddle was a big wooden knob that my legs got caught on. There was another knob at the back of the saddle. I gripped both.

They said to hold on, I went white knuckle. I wasn’t scared the animal would do anything wrong, but I was scared about my own capacity to stay balanced. Camels basically get up in third steps, shifting you around with them. As the camel was going through the motions and I was going through a rigious fitness test, I started reflexively saying “whoa.” Once up, it was great fun, but I didn’t know what to expect. Was I getting a full ride, or just a photo op? The camel started to go up on a curb. As it slowly stepped up onto a higher platform, I was jangled around, still saying “whoa.” I realized I sounded scared. I was actually having a wonderful time, so I started alternating with “thank you.” The camel didn’t take me far, just a loop around the road way, with others snapping photos constantly. The Bedouin knew all the right camera poses and angles. He was very professional. Getting down, you need to lean way back, because of the weird angle the camel goes on. By the time I got down, the Bedouin was concerned. “What was wrong?” he asked me sweetly. Embarressed about sounding like a wimp while I was up there, I told him I have a weak leg. That appeased his concerns.

My father-in-law also went for a ride on the camel, and was much braver. Afterward, I defended myself by saying that if I knew what to expect I wouldn’t have been so vocal. I wasn’t sure if I was going for a ride, or even how camels moved. But it was great fun.

We piled back into the car, and within an hour could see the turquoise waters of the dead sea. My ears kept popping because we were getting so low. We passed Qumram, the little rocky cave where the Dead Sea scrolls were found.

After a total of 90 minutes driving, we were at Masada. I didn’t exactly know what it was, or why it was such a big deal, but I knew to expect it to be hot. It was. Way too hot. I doubt that I’ll ever go back again.

I’m an anxious stress ball. Even on vacation, I need to worry about something. I was most worried about heat on this trip. I had never been to a desert, I had never felt “dry heat” in extreme form, and I was paranoid about dehydration. It had been a high of 32C in Jerusalem most days (a few were 35C), but even then we only spent minutes in the heat (though 15 minutes outside after the Holocaust museum were intensely hot). Today, the weather was supposed to be 40C in areas around Masada. I’d say it was more at the site.

As we drove up, we saw a mountain breaking away from the others. A long (snake path) hiking path of dry reddish dirt on the side of the reddish dry mountain had several hikers. We pulled into the underground parking, went up to the air conditioned visitor’s center and bought our tickets for the cable car.

First, we went into a dark theatre which played a film about the site. King Herod had used the unique mountain peak (broken away from the others) as a site for his palace. Later, when the Romans started to invade and had destroyed the second temple in Jerusalem, a few hundred Jews fled to the isolated mountain to use it as a fortress. The snake path was narrow and they thought they could hold off the Romans. But, the romans built and alternative route (the roman ramp). After a lengthy siege they broke down the walls, and destroyed the place.

A writer that our driver guide Richard likes to cite a lot (Josephus) had written that when the Romans had killed nearly everyone except 10 men and their families, the 10 men wrote their names on pottery shards, and determine who would kill who, and who would be left to fall on his own sword. When the Roman broke down the final area, the soldiers and their families were dead (well, except for 2 women who escaped and told this to Josephus). They have actually found 10 pottery shards with names written on them, but whether the shards or the story came first, we’ll never know.

The movie ended with trying to sell the Masada site as a cite of bravery, and a drive for freedom and avoidance of slavery. I wasn’t buying it. Maybe if you’re religious. Endorsement of suicide is not something I agree with. Even if you’re under siege, that’s hardly the equivalent to euthanasia. Remaining alive could prevent one or two of your enemies from succeeding, or from having a large impact on your people. I’m a pacifist (except in the situation of genocide, which a Roman siege would qualify as). Even if you were greatly outnumbered and would die, by killing one or two, those one or two less soldiers might mean another village will survive. So anyway, I wasn’t impressed with the video.

Then, we got in a cable car and that was fun. It took us up to the plateau on top of the mountain. From here, Richard morphed into our customizable tour guide and started leading us around and teaching us various things at certain spots on the site. He was amazing. The site was pretty neat. It was mostly just half walls and a few stair cases left. Maybe and archway here and there, and some fresco paintings and mosaic tiles. Real classic “ruins’ like you don’t see in the new world of North America.

Unfortunately, walking around these red stone walls was really crazy hot. I was drinking constantly, scared of dehyrdration. I could barely listen to Richard’s wonderfully prepared explainations and presentations at various parts of the site. I only took in the visual stuff – the mini models, and flooding model, the mosaics, and synagogue, and bathhouse (with cats), and store rooms. After 40 minutes, I emptied my bottle. After 70, I emptied it again. At the 90 minute mark, we headed back to the cable car.

I had been increasingly trying to mention that I wasn’t doing well. I didn’t want to be a baby. I was still getting by. The sweat and heavy breathing and hot face didn’t bother me. But the unfocused and disoriented brain, and lightheaded and dizzy feeling sure bothered me. But I wasn’t sure if that was anxiety over the heat, or the heat itself. I just kept drinking.

I explained to the others that for 22 years I didn’t leave the maritimes. The hottest weather in my home area was 30C, and those were considered really hot. You didn’t do strenuous activity outside, or stay out at the peak of the day. Yet, here I was, in the Judaen desert (in August!) with temperatures over 40C, outside on top of a mountain with no shelter from 10:20am to 11:50am, walking around under the sun. I must have had a death wish. But the others in my group tried to convince me that it wasn’t that bad. That made me angry, because they didn’t seem to understand just how much I was struggling.

When we got back to the cable car, it was cool, but I was out of water again. My fiancé gave me his bottle. When we got to the air conditioned visitor’s center, I was starving. It was noon hour, I was ready to eat. It was so nice in there, and I really needed food to get back to normal after that heat. After looking at the menu, my father-in-law decided he didn’t want to eat at the visitor’s center, so we left.
Richard suggested looking at some fancy hotels and a touristy center that had just been built up nearby. He said there was a place to eat there. We said sure. We had driven maybe 20 minutes down the road when we came to really fancy hotels, about 10 and some shopping areas. I needed to pee, that water I had drank had finished its cycle. I mentioned this, but as we circled the restaurants, the others in the car decided the didn’t want to eat at this location. Richard knew a “road side stand” that he thought they’d like more. I asked if the stand would have washrooms, he said yes.

We left the hotel area around 1:15pm. I was starving. But, I also increasingly needed to pee. A lot. I was dazed, my brain was still baked from the sun, and really uncomfortable. Everyone was having a nice conversation about Canada and water, and I just pinched my hand. At 1:40pm, I asked about the bathrooms. Richard said they were really close. That’s when (and how) I learned that Richard always lies about how long things will take, and purposely underplays it. If he says 30 minutes, it’s 50. If he says 15, it’s 30. If the bathroom is just around the next corner, it’s 20 minutes away. At one point, I was certain an accident was imminent. I said in a loud angst voice, “it’s getting to emergency levels here!” Finally, the van pulled into a little spot with a thatch roof and a few kiosks. I got out and jogged 300m to the washroom.

I knew I was acting like a diva about the heat and then the washroom. I was deeply embarrassed for being so high strung and high maintainince. But I don’t do heat well. If that was the consequence, then I decided I would not do heat like that again. There was no great benefit.

The thatch roof center we were at was Ein Gedi, the base on a nature hike up to a waterfall. After I used the washroom, we ate sandwiches from the snack bar and discussed who wanted to go on the hike. Supposedly, if you did the whole 20 minute distance you’d reach a really nice waterfall. It sounded tempting, until I realized that actually meant another hour out in the heat, and that the waterfull wouldn’t be surrounded by lush greenery like I was picturing in my head – it’s likely just be water falling from one red rock surface to another.

I stayed back in the 40C shade while my father-in-law went with our guide. They were gone about an hour. My fiancé and his mom found that Ein Gedi was just as hot at Masada. I felt much cooler. The direct midday sunlight was no longer beating down on me, or back up from the shiny some stone walkways of Masada. The air conditioning in the visitors center also helped, and 4 trips to the washroom was a blessing too. By the time we were ready to, I felt pretty back to normal, finally.

When piled back into the car, and Richard took us "Ibex lurking." Ibex are gazelle or antelope like animals that are really plentiful in the Ein Gedi and Dead Sea area. We ended up seeing tons of them, and they would come right up to the car and didn't seem scared at all. The males had long horns and black "boots."

Richard then suggested we go visit the Ahava showroom. As a tour guide, we were aware that he might right perks from bringing business to attractions and stores. And the ladies at the upscale personal care products outlet were really pouring on the high pressure sales. But, if we spent 200 shekels there, we did not have to pay 200 shekels to visit the beach at the Dead Sea we wanted to go to. Everything was made with minerals from the Dead Sea, and was much cheaper than purchasing it around the world. And everyone we met had recommended it. So, I walked away with a face cream and some shower gel.

Our next stop was the highlight of the day, and perhaps one of the major highlights of our trip. Finally, the Dead Sea. Although you could technically visit the sea from any point you want, we went to a built up little area with change rooms and toilets, a restaurant, chairs, umbrellas, a sulphur pool and towel service. And it was free because of our face cream indulgences.

I can’t swim, and I’ve never been able to float without holding onto the side of a pool. I was excited. All five of us went into the water together (with Richard sitting under the umbrella with our bags). Everyone else was in water shoes, I took my sandals off with only 6 inches to go. The rocks hurt, but things got sandy about 6 feet in.

The water increased very gradually. There were no waves. The water was milky blue and when you moved your body through it you noticed how thick it felt. Richard had explained to us, “Walk until you can squat, and then lean back.” My fiancé thought I’d be a nervous wreck. After the camel, I was wondering too. But I really like water and like wading around in beaches and pool. I bent my knees, touched the ground with my hands, and my body rose. I exclaimed in joy. It was fun.
Others were flat on their backs. I attempted to do this, but was scared about floating away from shore, where I couldn’t touch bottom (in reality, I could go out a good 30 feet and still be fine). I kept clinging to my fiance’s water shoe or appendages.

Finally, I found my way. I remained sitting up, but leaning back, with my feet out in front of me. It was extremely easy. So then I wanted to locomote. I can’t swim and don’t know how to purposely more my body in water.

You couldn’t “swim” in the dead sea. Splashing, getting the water on your face, and in your mouth is strictly prohibited and dangerous. You don’t float belly down for that reason (though I did “crawl” on my belly with my hands on the sea bed.
The others started coaching me about which way to move my arms, from in to out or vice versa for forwards and backwards. Then I was taught to turn with one arm. After moving myself out farther in my sitting and leaning with my knees bent, I got uncomfortable and wanted to get out of that position. I didn’t know how, I was kinda freaked out. My fiancé just told me to lean forward, and wow! Feet securely on the ground again. Very neat. Then of course I had to walk out further.

Once the water gets up to my mid-chest while walking, it becomes increasingly hard to stay on the ground. At this point, I just stood and kicked around with my legs and I was floating. So easy. The water made us all feel oily and creamy, like we were bathing in lotion. It was so neat. I could have (and would have) stayed there all day.

But there was the mud. A big barrel on the shore contained thick, black, very warm clayish mud. It was smooth and oily. My fiancé, his father and I decided to smear ourselves with it, like I had seen on tv before. It went on really thick, surprisingly warm at first, but worked like a sunblocker after a few minutes. Then of course, we went back to the water to get it washed off. By now I felt like a pro. I just couldn’t lean all the way back, because that’s a loss of control, and I’m a complete control freak. We started to noticed “burning” sensations in various parts that were underwater. For me, any bodily openings were effected almost immediately, and then gradually places where my skin was thinner (like a scaped knee) started to burn as well. When others started to sense more generalized irritation, we headed out.

We showered and started to dry off, but I remembered the sulphur pools at the top. The sulpur pool is a mineral hot tub, heated to 39C. Wow. I did not need that heat. It was also thick and milky and you couldn’t see the stars. I thought there was only 3, there was 7. The latter 4 all greatly surprised me, but not falling (thankfully). I didn’t stay in long, it pretty much burned. The bricks around the pool were hot and caked with curry colored sand. It would take me days to get that curry color off my sandals.

We stayed at the Dea Sea until they were announcing that the beach had closed to the night (at 5:30pm). Shortly after arriving back at the apartment in Jerusalem, I got a bit of a dehyrdation headache. I doubt it was from the heat in Masada - it was likely from not drinking enough after bathing in the salty and sulphuric waters. We were all exhausted.

Jack Layton's funeral started to be broadcast on CBC at 9pm. I stayed at the apartment to stream it on my laptop, and my fiance's parents picked up gourmet burgers for us all. The "small" was 1/3 pound of meat. Disgustingly big. As the last meal in the German Colony of Jerusalem, I wasn't going to miss the American sized portions. (Of course, I didn't realize the portions would remain the same throughout Israel).

And that was Saturday.

Lazy Friday

2011-08-30T10:16:00.004-04:00

As I write this, it's Tuesday at 5pm. Here's what I did last Friday. (Yes I know I'm far behind! I had to work on my postdoc proposal).

After a very busy Thursday, Friday was a lot more relaxing. We were going to try the Hezekiah Tunnels (water tunnels) again, but then decided against it. With nothing on the agenda, I slept in. While my fiancé and his parents went out for breakfast, I had some bread and hummus and went for a walk by myself. I wouldn’t have done it on the first day, or even the second day. But after strolling through the Muslim Quarter and pushing my luck on Thursday, the German Colony of the new city felt like a preschool it was so safe.

We were staying in behind Emek Rafeim (which I had seen a lot of) and the road to Bethlehem (which I hadn’t really seen. So, I walked down the Derech Beit-le-hem for about 20 minutes and browsed shops until the shops stopped. I passed a few major intersections, but turned right at a traffic circle, saw a pharmacy – which was actually part of a shopping centre. I went through the security check point at the mall (the guy didn’t even look in my purse, just held it as I went through the x-ray) and then went window shopping at the mall for a bit. I then attempted to walk back using a different route. On my way out of the mall, I asked the sercurity guy how to get to Emek, but he wasn’t gifted with spatial skills or English vocabulary. I walked a series of little turns, was actually 3 blocks away but got spooked I was on the wrong track so I walked back to the road to Bethlehem, past my intersection, and walked there the wrong way. I made a stop at the post office before Shabbat hours at the post office.

Then I took a loooooong nap. Touring all day and writing blog entries and photo captions all night is really exhausting.

Friday evening was Shabbat dinner at my fiance’s uncle and aunt’s house again. It was just us, the cousin who goes to school in New York, the cousin who is a rabbinical student, his wife who is a nursing student, and their really cute son.
I greatly enjoyed the baby time. He is such a good baby and loved to get the attention. I was offered the opportunity to bathe him, but I was way too nervous. He’s too precious.

Dinner was great. The awesome hummus made by the uncle again, followed by several types of salads and veggies (cucumbers, tomatoes, tossed salad, tabouli and maybe even more). Then, was the “main” dishes, sweet potatos, white potatos, noodles with lentils and gravy, and a cake like thing that I couldn’t identify but immensely enjoyed. The combo of the cakey-protein thing I couldn’t identify, the sugary sweet potatos and the salty white potatos was terrific. It might have been my favourite meal on the vacation. Of course, there was also dessert – a couple types of cake and some fruit. I remember eating something cakey with chocolate chips that was really good, but I was exhausted and sleepy by this time.

At the end was the good byes to the family members and the verbal invitations to our wedding. When I told the nursing student that I loved her baby, she smiled and laughed and said, “But you can’t take him home.” I know I can’t. But I would have loved to.

Then we had a cool walk back to the apartment. It was a nice laid back day.
The only thing that was stressful on Friday was the suitcase situation. Because we were a group of 5, luxuries that came with being a group of 4 didn’t work. I know my fiance’s family is used to planning as a group of 4, and I was throwing off the schematics. Namely, cargo space. On Sunday, august 28th, we would be checking out of our apartment, and driving around other points in Israel until our flight from Tel Aviv to Rome on August 31st. How were we going to fit 5 people, plus suitcases, plus a driver into a vehicle for 2 days until we got to Tel Aviv?

I assumed that when we booked the driver, we made sure there was enough cargo space. Now my mother-in-law was suggesting shipping the luggage to Tel Aviv in a taxi while we roamed other areas. That would mean amalgamating our stuff together into suitcases we’d take and suitcases we’d ship. It’d also mean trusting a driver, and doing lots of coordinating with the hotel. Of course, the hotel wouldn’t want to hold the luggage for 3 days until we got there, so the plan was to keep the luggage at the uncle and aunt’s house for a few days and then ask them to coordinate things with a driver. That plan sounded really messy to me.

On Thursday, when we were touring the old city, my mother-in-law’s ex-step-brother-in-law offered to drive it to Tel Aviv with her other step-brother-in-law who was Israeli (and who I had met at the wedding). I liked this idea much more. Friends of family was way safer, and more reliable, and both of these men were really nice guys. My father-in-law agreed. On Thursday afternoon we tried to strategize, but it never happened.

So there we were, on Friday night, trying to figure out what we’d do by Sunday morning. No plans could be made and no one could be contacted until Saturday night, because of Shabbat. The uncle and aunt who live here discouraged us from imposing on the brothers-in-law and encouraged a taxi. I was stressed out. I mentioned I was having nightmares about it.

Luckily on Saturday, everything turned out better.

The Old City

2011-08-26T09:06:00.009-04:00

On Thursday, we met up in the market at 9:30am with a friend of the family's who is studying to be a tour guide here in Jerusalem. (He's actually the former husband of the woman who is the child of Bubbie's second husband, or my mother-in-law's former step-brother-in-law).

I had never been to the shuk (market) before, so that was really fun. On the drive there, I liked looking at the shops, especially the bridal store that had modest and less modest gowns.

The "tour guide" (who made us promise to say he wasn't a tour guide because he was still two weeks away from his exams and getting his license) was a really fun, awesome guy. And he knows where all the good bathrooms are. And he demands that you pee, drink water, and wear a hat when he tells you do. He took us to a bathroom roughly every hour or more frequent - I didn't complain. And he kept us in the shade. My mother-in-law kept saying she anticipated a really hot day - it was actually one of our coolest because he was so efficient at finding us shade. I liked his organizational skills, I liked his take charge attitude, it was a great 11 hour day following him around (yes, it went until 8pm).

Now, I saw a lot in those 11 hours. There's no way I could possibly write about everything in as much detail as I have been. It would take probably 33 hours to write about those 11 hours. So, here's the highlights.

We wandered the shuk and saw lots of pomengranetes, I tried halava, and there was tons of fish for sale. We climbed up 6 flights of stairs to the roof of one market building that was once a hotel. There were couches and chairs on the roof and a beautiful morning view of the red roofs. The stairs were hard to climb and pretty lopsided.

We walked through some residential areas that were built in the 1960s when developers were trying to encourage people to leave the old city. They were worthless then, but each small home is now worth millions.

Then we walked and go on the new LRT! It just started when we arrived and it's free for two weeks. I was excited, but it honestly was a lot like the O-train. Smoother ride I guess. We rode it to near to the Jaffa gate.

Before going into the Old City through the Jaffa Gate, we detoured into the Russian compount to look at a giant column in the ground. There was also a really neat painting that looked like a 3 petal flower. One petal was orange and pointed down and was labeled Africa with various Africa locations, the petal to the left was red and called europe, the petal to the right was blue and labeled Asia. In the center, the center of the flower was Jerusalem. Like, it's the center of the world. America (and England and Denmark) were little islands floating around the flower. Then we saw a jail and some Russian churches.

Next we went to a really neat place that is called Lifeline of the Old in English (the Hebrew name is better). A young woman came and met us and suggested taking us on a tour. She was dressed religoiusly, but all in white, from her head scarf to her skirt. She spoke English very fluently. She explained that they were a service that has run for 60 years to help provide elderly Israelis with a sense of community, and purpose, income, and well-being. They provide health, dental and eye glasses coverage, and run events, and create a place for elderly Israelis to meet those who speak their own languages. A lot of their clients are recent immigrants who may not be fluent in Hebrew. They can bond in their mother tongue over common issues.

But most importantly, they help maintain longevity and sense of purpose through hiring elderly Israelis to make crafts. Not dinkie little crafts. Beautiful, silk screen scarfs, and stained glass, and porcelain housewares. Wooden toys, plush animals, and lots of Judaica. She walked us through a few workshops, we met a few gentlemen from Ethiopia and another from Argentina who explained their crafts to us. We watched the silk screen process, and paper mache birds. They all looked really happy. Some of our co-tour-goers were super impressed at their fine motor skills at such an advanced age. The tour guide explained that not everyone can do everything, but most can do something. They find what type of task each person can excel at, and then provide them with the support to do it.

I had an ear to ear grin on me the whole time we walked through this part. It was like the happiest old age home on earth. There was such much vitality and happiness and purpose. I liked it a lot. They mainly work with people over 67, the average age is 78. They will take people younger, for example if a new immigrant is not flourishing and needs the sense of community, they will take people in their young 60s. At the end, we went to the gift shop and saw the stuff they had made. How could you not buy it? Before going on the tour, we were told at the front of the workshop, all the stuff was made by seniors and all the proceeds go to seniors. But that really doesn't hit you until you actually see it like we did. Very cool.

Next we went into the new mall that is only 2 years old. Parts of it were outdoor like an outdoor mall, parts were indoor and you needed to have security to get in. We ate a little cafe place with huge salmon sandwiches. I had a sweet-potato and black lentil salad with goat cheese, it was good. After viewing the square toilets at the Gap (one of 2 dozen bathrooms we saw) we went through the Jaffa gate, along the border between the Christian and Armenian Quarters.

We stopped and got maps at the info place, then walked down one cobblestone road and into an alley way of sorts. As our touring group of 9 walked by, a Arab shop owner yelled, "Exchange money! Exchange dollars! Exchange euros! Exchange boyfriend!" The last part was when me and my fiance walked by. That was pretty funny, though insulting to my poor fiance, who just blushed under his sun hat.

the Christian quarter had a nice big central area with music and shops and lots of pigeons. And lots of twisty roads. After a few twisty roads, we came to the Church of the Holy Scelptor, supposedly the site of Jesus's crucifixtion. It was insanely humid inside, we all were dripping with sweat like someone splashed oil on us. We climbed some terribly loopsided stairs that were hard on my knees, and got to the chamber were people lined up for 2 hours to kneel at a window that peered at a piece of Jesus's cross. We didn't do that. The tour guide (aka mother-in-law's step-brother-in-law) kept pointing out various stations of the cross. I guess people expected me to know more than I do, but I don't. I really not that educated in Catholic mythology, but it was cool nonetheless. I hadn't pushed to go there, but it's neat saying I was there now that I was.

The church was massive with tons of different chambers and walkways. Unlike the huge Cathedrals of Quebec, there was no one huge place, just tons of tons of little smaller, chambers. And many many stairs. And lots of dudes in long black robes with crosses. I walked to take their pictures, but inside the lighting was bad, and outside they walked too fast. I'm sure I'll see more when we go to the Vatican.

Interestingly, the church actually belongs to a Muslim family, who unlocks and locks it each night. Christians live in the church to maintain control, but it has belonged to Muslims since the Otto empire. Next we climbed down to another santuary, and then down again to a cave like thing. The tour guide was citing descriptions of the bible that were used to stake this site as Jesus's crucifixation site. Something about the hill, and the quarrey, and now we were down in the quarrey. We went back up, and into a room with a small, waist high alcove like cave at the back. It was pitch black. Me and two others crawled inside. It was rounded on top with two smaller chambers at the back, just big enough for a person to lie. Apparently, those were burial chambers. Not Jesus, but supposedly a saint (or perhaps a soldier during the Crusades) had been buried there at one point in time.

When we left the church, things started to feel like how I pictured Israel. We were in a stone courtyard, with the church and walls on all sides. We turn right, go into an Ethiopian church, walked around the sancutary, go up stairs, down a hall, and up more stairs to outside again. Now we're in a walkway with lots of cats (there are lots of cats here). We were on the ground, but there were roofs of churches and domes of sanctuaries popping up through it. We were definitely a few floors above street level, but the path was solid. Of course, even street level is actually build on many other structures that were built upon others over the centuries. I finally understand how in movies you could jump from roof to roof and not need street level transportation - in Canadian cities that doesn't work because everything is too simplistic and planned. The was functioning chaos of history.

We went down a few sets of stairs, passing lots of Christian stuff on the way. When we hit street level, we were again in the Arab market. After Monday's adventure in the Arab market, I wasn't sure I wanted to come back. But it was now 2:30pm. I had been with the tour guide since 9:30am, and he had earned my trust. He seemed to know what he was doing.

It wasn't as dead as it was on Monday, and things seemed less intense. It was a big flea market, with lots of laterns and stars and glitterly stuff looped between the narrow walls that were stuffed with carpets and t-shirts and beads and various other things for sale. We went down a long series of stairs that connected two streets, and people seemed to treat us better. On one of the landings between stairs, there were about 7 kids sitting together, 6 under 6 and one boy who looked maybe 12 who said hello to us. There were tons and tons of kids everywhere. We looked into the windows of an "authenic archeological shop" and discussed the political implications of Muslims excavating old Jewish religious sites so they could further develop the land and then profiting from it. (Of course you could say the exact opposite about other areas where pre-1948 stuff is being removed for Jewish settlements).

Funnily (or not funnily) we ended up on the exact stretch of road we were on Monday. It was different this time, because there were more white people around, and (maybe because we were in a bigger group) things seemed better. We ended up right at the T intersection where the restaurant vendor yelled at me for turning down his business. He wasn't standing out front. I stored across the street, with more bearings than I had last time, and took a few pictures of the shop. Here it is:

You can't see it well, but on one glass window, there was "hot dogs" written, along with lots of stuff not on the menu he put into my hands on Monday. Funnily enough, this is where the tour guide wanted to take us. Well, not exactly. Across the street, at the tip of the T section was a big door. It was the other bathroom the shop keeper had directed me to on Monday, the one I didn't go to. The one I went to was in a French school and was beautiful, but this was on better. It was in an Austrian hospice that was like a palace. You went up through a gated stairwell to a beautiful landing, then into a really swanky lobby. Just down the hall was the cafe. We bought apple strudels and mango juice, and then went out onto the side balcony into a garden that was 3 floors above street level. It was like an oasis, so beautiful and the perfect temperature. We sat there for over and hour, soaking it in. While we were there, we here the call to prayer, and bits of Arabic over a loud speaker. We knew lots of Muslims would be heading to the temple mount for mid-afternoon prayers and for Ramadan service.

Then, we went back inside to the hospice, and took the elevator up a few floors. We went to the back of the building, and climbed a few stairs and ended up on the roof. It was amazing! The golden dome of the rock was right there, the red roofs and Israeli flags were close by, as was a giant stone cross built into the side of the roof. This was Jerusalem. In one view point, in one angle, this was the city. It all made sense now. We stood there for a while, before grudgingly coming down.

When we arrived back on street level, across from my least favorite vendor in the Arab Quarter, we were instructed by our guide that we were going to the Kotel Katan (I don't know how to spell it, just guessing here). The kotel (or however it is spelled) is the name Jews use for the Wall. We had already gone to the wall on Monday, this was Thursday, most of us weren't interested. By our guide insisted this was different. It wasn't the part we were thinking of, it was the part directly lined up with the Holy of Holies and where the second temple was placed.

So, we started walking down the footsteps we had taken only 3 days earlier. Of course, this time the streets were packed. And we were going against the flow of traffic. It honestly was not that big of a deal, I think the tunnel tour people on Monday were making a huge deal out of nothing. We had to walk single file. I walked in front of my fiance, with one hand wrapped around me holding his hand. My other hand was purposely placed over my purse (like I always do in packed crowds, from Canada Day in Ottawa, to Seniors Day at Zellers). We pressed on and on, I didn't have much trouble getting through, but keeping up with the others was a bit tougher.

Midway to the Israeli sercurity checkpoint back to the Jewish section, our tour guide stopped and directed us to make a left turn, in an alley. We walked up some stairs and around a bend, then up more stairs. We passed a few police offices by a half moon archway in stone, and ended up in a small area that was bordered on one side by the Western Wall. I was impressed. There was no one else there except a Chinese couple who were videotaping. Our guide explained that the dome is just on the other side, and this is the close as any non-Muslims can currently get to the site of the Holy of Holies. We stayed there, a few in our group prayed at the wall. I liked the cool corridor. It was super quiet and isolated, and neat.

Then, our guide talked to us about something a bit more controversial. He said that the although non-Muslims are not allowed on the temple mount, from time to time, people are allowed on the stairs leading up to the temple mount to take pictures. Usually not guys, but girls are typically allowed. He had it in his mind that we were going to try to approach the mount to get the "most upclose view of the dome" we'll ever get. By this time, it was 4:30pm. I had known the guide since 9:30am, and I was starting to trust him.

We left the kotel katan, went down a extremely dark set of stairs (pitch black and we had to feel around), wound around on a curve, and ended up on street level again. We started moving forward against the crowds. The crowds were less and it was a bit easier to stay together, but still in two clumps rather than one group.

There was so much going on the market place. Lots of items for sale hung from everywhere, there were tons of people around and lots happening. I was trying to take it all in. I was near the end of the group with my fiance and his mom and brother. His dad, the tour guide, and 3 others in our group were further ahead.

As we were walking, a man said to my fiance's mother (who was right in front of us), "Turn back. You can't go this way." He wasn't angry. He wasn't threatening. He was stern, but protective (of us) and trying to be helpful. The four of us stopped on a dime, but the rest of the group kept going ahead, about 5 shop lengths.

I didn't even know who had said that, but I didn't want to disobey, it sounded serious. We tried to holler to the others, who I could now see were standing a few feet away from some stairs. Eventually the tour guide came back and explained that the man who said "turn back" was just warning us that we can't go on the temple mount. He knew that. He wasn't trying to get us there. But he had successfully gotten people up the stairs for a photo op before and wanted to try again.

Then, he turned to me and pointed at the stairs. "See that guard on the stairs?" he asked, "You need to get your camera ready, and go ask him if you can take a picture of the dome. Are you ready?" I gulped. What the hell was I doing here? The Muslims who welcomed me into their market certainly didn't want me on those stairs. As far as I was concerned, this could have gotten me killed. I didn't know what I was doing. And what about the guard? What was he doing to do if he thought I was out of line?

Rightly or wrongly, adrenaline got the better of me. The ex-brother-in-law or my future mother-in-law had me convinced. I fired up my camera and walked forward with him. It had been a long day, and I had learned to trust the guy. I glanced back at my fiance, walked by the others in my group at the bottom of the stairs, and walked halfway up the stairs. An Israeli police officer stepped forward, about 7 steps above me, and shook his index finger.

"Can I take a picture?" I asked, holding up my camera. He shook his head and finger at me. I smiled, and backed down the stairs. My tour guide was at the bottom and asked the guard and go the same response. I walked straight back to my fiance, and then the adrenaline of what a taboo that was came over me.

Considering my fiance's Bubbie and aunt from Toronto won't go into the Arab Quarter at all, my actions were pretty reckless. I mean, we had gone in - twice. Without escorts - twice. Against the flow of traffic, and purposefully tried to push boundaries and go where we're not supposed to. Sounds pretty insane. Yet, I'm still in one piece. Is it really that dangerous, or are we naive about reality? I'm not sure.

Either way, this time we were in a large group, and that helped to get us turned around and back towards the Jewish secruity check point. We went through with almost no incident. My father in law forgot he was wearing an extra shoulder bag and didn't put it through the x-ray and kept beeping. Everyone else had gone through and was waiting for him on the other side.

Just when I saw my future father-in-law get the ok from security to keep going, two Israeli police officers walked by the security check point with a figure in chains walking between them. We were standing in a semi-circle shaped hallway with a curved ceiling. Me and my fiance were beside each other, pressed against the wall. The Isreali police walked by us, and the man they escorted walked maybe a foot or two away from our faces.

He had a white keffiyeh (Arab head scarf for men) and a long straggling beard. His wrists were in hand cuffs and his ankles were in huge cuffs that jangled as he walked.

I'm sure my jaw was on the ground. We turned and watched as they walked by. I pulled out my camera and took a few photos of behind. By that time our group was moving, and followed them (by about 50 feet) out an into the big stone area in front of the Western Wall. There, we saw the police escort the man into an Israeli police car.

Our guide started telling us various things about the Wall, but we were too distracted over that site. Eventually, we shook it off, noticed the "Lord" scratched into the face of the Western Wall, and then climbed about 4 flights of stairs to a landing.

There was a big gold menorah on the landing and lots of religiously dressed Jews around. We had just caught our breath from the stairs, when there was a huge sound of a blast or an explosion. Just one. Just a half a second long. But it was loud and we all jumped. It came from the direction of beyond the wall.

That freaked us out. It the blast come from the Muslim Quarter? Was it connected to the man being taken away in ankle cuffs? What if we had still been in the Muslim Quarter? Were we in danger?

One of the touring companions is starting a 2 year service in the Israeli army and he judged the incident as likely a mysterious package disposal. They apparently happen a lot - someone misplaces their backpack or forgets a briefcase, and the Israeli army is required to blow up the package as a safety precaution.

That seemed like a satisfactory answer to us. Our heart beats slowed from fearful bunny fast and we climbed another 4 levels of stairs and landed at a large bookstore.

After looking at a few stores, we walked throug the Jewish Quarter. There was an entry way with a gun propped up pointing down at those who walked through it. Kinda creepy. We stood in a courtyard outside an Israeli school and walked a lot of hassidic kids play on bikes and slide down cobblestone ramps as slides. We attempted to visit the Four Synagogue that were Sephardic, but by the time we got there, they were closed.

We passed some terribly gross chicken, and then moved onto the Armenian Quarter. The sun had already set in the sky, but there was just enough light. There were neat church tops here and golden statues. Supposedly the Tomb of David also. We visited the synagogue of his tomb, but it was really not that amazing. In a corridor, around a turn, into a musty room with some books. The women's section was as big as an elevator with a musty purple casket at the front (or half a casket as the other half was in the men's section).

Finally, it was the end of the day. We walked out of the Old City walls, and saw the new city all light up in the dark. Beautiful. We hailed some taxis, and I went back and ate the other half of my chicken sandwich from Wednesday night.

That was Thursday. It is now Sunday.