tumbleweed

2003-12-23T22:29:00.000-08:00

There's an old Christmas card in an old rusty trunk...

Frankly, I’d rather see Rudolph seriously injured than sit through Jim Carrey’s Grinch.
Cam dug that one out of a box at the DVD store, and showed it to me, cocking his head to the side in jest, as though either of us would entertain the idea of passing Christmas with a perverted version of a Christmas classic.

We didn’t find the real Grinch, nor did we find Scrooged, or It’s a Wonderful Life. Who knew there was a place on earth that didn’t force that one on you several times during the holiday season? They did have Die Hard, though. Now, while my parents watch that every Christmas, I have a severe hate-on for Bruce Willis. Especially in a grimy wife-beater.

Instead we settled for TV series on DVD, Once Upon a Time in Mexico, Our Majesty’s Secret Service, Comedian, Citizen Ruth and All the Real Girls. No Christmas music, either. Not even my perennial favourite, Jim Reeves. I think this is my first without him. No matter, I can regale Cameron with all of the words anyway. They have been committed to memory long ago. No doubt he’ll commit me after bearing the umpteenth rendition of Senor Santa Claus.

So what are we doing for Christmas then? What does anyone do? Eat.

Cameron really had no preference after he’d put a big bottle of Coke in the shopping basket so I went to work for the both of us. There were no Nuts n’ Bolts, no cherry cake from Mom and no Cheezies or Bugles, so I had to make do. We bought decent chocolate, Pringles—not the Vietnamese “Mister Potato Chips” facsimile either, in the suspiciously similar cylinder packaging with an eerily similar and mustachioed pitchman on the front. I got coconut white chocolate balls, vanilla wafers, very Vietnamese sweet sour apricots (already consumed) and soft toffees. I will pick up mandarins on the way to work today off a lady on the street. And we’ve got a friend working his connection to get us a good deal on some smuggled whiskey. What is Christmas without bootleg hooch, I’ve always said.

We’ll go out for a nice, fancy dinner on Saturday, to avoid the not-quite-like-we-remember Christmas dinners put on at the hotels on Thursday.

So essentially, we’ll stay in at home this year, watch the Sopranos and gorge ourselves on treats while downing whiskey.

Family and booze. See, you can celebrate Christmas just about anywhere.

Have a great holiday!

Love, Tracy

2003-12-03T22:51:00.000-08:00

Things that are getting me down:

Crying all weekend for no apparent reason.

The Canadian dollar. The irony is that it is strong for the first time in recent memory and I am being paid in American dollars. When I send money home to pay my bills, guess what currency doesn't go as far as it would have any other time in my life?

Work is a total bitch. "Reporters" i.e. translators making the same mistakes; the same stories over and over and over -- that would never be stories anywhere else in the world; management being completely incapable of doing anything; hours that are creeping up on us because we're short-staffed; hours that are lasting much longer because the city is hosting a huge sporting event and management didn't see that coming... it goes on and on.

Our monthly outing to the bank always involves shouting. This time they took some of our money because it was counterfeit. (Cash we got from our wages) Cam had them photocopy it so we could take it into work and demand that money back. The woman at work said we must have gotten it somewhere else and wouldn't pay us. Cam had to strong-arm her into it. Why are we the bad guys here? Should we get one of those little counterfeit detector machines to check our wages before we take them home?

Frivolous concerns:
1. I don't think my laundry should come back smelling of mildew.
2. Jackhammering from three construction sites next door to our apartment SHOULD NOT start at 8am.
3. I was sooooo looking forward to getting tons of clothes tailored. Why, Co Tailors, did you shatter my dreams and quote me such a huge amount for a blazer. (about $35) And I bought the material myself!

Things to be grateful for:

1. My wonderful husband-to-be. I'm not just saying that.
2. When he makes me scrambled eggs.
3. The other tailor I went to, who is charging me a quarter of the price I was first quoted. Now I just need to see what kind of job she does.

2003-11-14T22:53:00.000-08:00

Dear Harry and Sophie,

How was your Halloween? What did you dress up as? Here in Hanoi, people don't celebrate the holiday, except for a few Westerners who go out and act all crazy. Some people did dress up. They were Britney Spears, and men dressed as ladies, or they wore wigs, whatever they could get their hands on over here. Being an EXPAT, you don't have much stuff here--you probably packed just a suitcase or two but you probably didn't put a costume in there. And if you were like us, and you came over here on a TOURIST VISA and then later get a BUSINESS VISA and needed to trick the authorities into thinking you were just staying a little while, then you took hardly anything at all. Then you start missing things like my converse, or the iron, or my little green stapler.

Our days are pretty normal. Like your mom, we start work late. Unlike your mom, we spend our mornings sleeping in and then I read and Cameron plays a video game on his laptop. I make some green tea in the morning, but then we are hungry, and because there's never any food in our apartment, we go out. It's actually cheaper that way too. So we walk about a block and guess what we have for breakfast? Soup! We eat a big bowl each of chicken or beef slices with rice noodles and green onions. And we put vinegar in there! It's called pho and it's very good.

We tried bun bo the other day, which is a bowl of beef, a different kind of noodle, vinegary vegetables, basil and peanuts. Sounds weird, I know, but it's delicious. We always eat with chopsticks. It's easy and I bet you could do it too.

So, once we leave our apartment, we walk downstairs and say hello to the girl who cleans our apartment. She is making lunch for the family outside in the courtyard in a big wok. They will probably have rice and fried spinach and maybe some fish. Then we walk by the building next door, which is always under construction. Every day we wake up to the sound of rat-a-tat-tat. Jackhammers and regular hammers and I don't think it will ever be built. We walk by and they are hauling a basket of bricks up into the sky by a rope and they stop to watch us.

Once we hit the street, a guy sitting on his motorbike asks us if we want a ride. He is like a taxi, but the kind of taxi that is always stopping and the driver is getting out or calling yoohoo to you from across the street---MADAM? SIR? WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

We ignore him and watch the traffic as we walk. We have traffic lights and intersections, but a lot of drivers don't care about PEDESTRIANS. There's not as many cars as there are at home, because everyone is on motorbikes! Sometimes three people at once, and with a baby in the front holding the handlebars! People drive side by side, and fast, and there are few rules. Sometimes people just go through red lights, or go the wrong way down a one-way, or just drive on the sidewalk if it's a shortcut. Sometimes, when a car or bike is driving down a street and wants to turn right, he'll make the turn from right in the middle of the street, instead of getting into the right lane. It is very funny.

So we keep walking by the many EMBASSIES and the guards who wear guns. We walk past the many little restaurants with Harry and Sophie-sized plastic stools that adults sit on. Past fabric markets, and people cutting up meat, and stores selling very small washers and dryers, and women picking lice out of each other's hair. Then we might stop to buy a pear or a loaf of french bread from a woman who carries her wares in two baskets balanced on a stick over her shoulders, but now she is squatting on a street corner for awhile to sell her stuff. Once, with grapes, a woman asked me for 40,000 DONG (that is our money here) a kilogram and I laughed! She gave me one to taste and I nodded to say it was good, but the price was too high. I said 10,000 and she shook her head. I looked CRITICALLY into her sack of grapes. She said 30,000. I frowned. We were silent for awhile. We agreed on 25,000, which I thought was too expensive, but she complained bitterly to a man nearby so we got a good deal, I guess. That is called bargaining.

Very close to our work, we pass some primary school children out in their school's covered compound. They are lined up in their uniforms, white shirts and blue pants, and one of the young girls is ordering them to perform exercises. She'll yell one thing (in Vietnamese, of course) and they'll bend down, then they'll reach their hands up. I guess that's like their gym class. Do you wear uniforms?

Then we get to work and the lights are out in the office, and the girls are sleeping, each curled up on two office chairs put together, their arms flung over their eyes. Everyone here takes a little lunch and sleep break from about noon to 2pm. They get up so early and work so late, that is what they must do.

And then we work. Work is another letter.

Can't wait to see you guys next summer. I am so excited Sophie that you are going to be my flower girl! And Harry, you must be so big now! And in grade two!

Cameron can't wait to meet you both. He can play chess with you.

Take care, and write me a letter if you'd like to.

Love, Auntie Tracy

2003-11-08T00:15:00.000-08:00

It's hard to find good gaunch these days

How can I be frustrated with the maid for never scrubbing the bathroom, when she leaves new bananas for us almost daily, brings us a few fresh roses, and folds my panties just so?

Then the clincher this morning: One pair did have a small hole, and I found it had been mended.

I could get used to this. There's a motherfucking sparkle on the floor.

2003-11-07T23:17:00.000-08:00

There's banking. And then there's Vietnamese banking.

We work for the State so we can send money home to the man.

That's what we did this month: wire transfer a whole heap o' money to pay my and Cam's visa bills, student loans, computer payment, car lease, our souls.
We bit the bullet and chose to wire it home, because a money order was not that much cheaper. All said and done, it cost us about $60 to transfer that pile of cash into one bank account. And it wasn't easy...

We walked into ANZ bank with piles of Vietnamese dong packed mostly into Cam's now particularly well-endowed crotch. Our pay is in US, which is then exchanged into dong. There is 15,600 dong to a US dollar. Needless to say we are local millionaires and we have obscene stacks of bills at our disposal. At least, for the day or so after we're paid.

At the bank, we told them many times we wanted to wire money to our accounts in Canada and we were met with blank stares. Apparently, this is a highly unorthodox procedure. We managed to convey our message, after they ascertained we worked here, but we were told to get some documents supporting we weren't just laundering money, and come back. It took some time to get to that point, and by then, as Cam is unpredictably and occassionally apt to do, he stormed out in a little mad fit.

The next day, we went back in prepared. We had a fresh letter from work, which we couldn't believe they typed up so quickly, certifying we were employees, stating our salaries and our passport numbers. It was written on letterhead and stamped in RED.

"Do you pay tax?" asked the teller. Yes, we said.
"That's not in the letter," she told us.
"What?"
"Are you paid in cash?" they asked, for now there were more of them.
"What do you think this pile of dong is?"
"That's not in the letter," they said.

And so it went. This time was my turn to get mad, and in my usual way, my eyes welled up with tears, and Cam took care of it while I sat down. God should fear the day we both get frustrated.

After 40 minutes of loud voices and ridiculous "sorry for the inconvenience"s, we took off, completely drained.

On the third day, we had gotten the required paperwork but being North Americans, we wanted to cash in on the ol' 'let's take our business elsewhere.' We had heard HSBC was popular with expats, and Cam found their website upon which was written "WIRE TRANSFERS MADE EASY."

It took us about 45 minutes to walk to HSBC. When we got to the address it was a state bank. We asked the guard if HSBC was located in this high-rise. He shrugged and showed us the foreign exchange. They told us HSBC was upstairs.

So up we went, to the 13th floor.

"Not much street presence," I said.

Sure enough, down a hall and into a small room, we found their corporate office. We were informed they had no branch in Ha Noi, just in HCM City.

We decided to give the state bank a try. We asked at reception. They told us to go back upstairs, to floor 2. We did. We asked a security person where to wire money. She pointed to counter 52. They told us to go downstairs to counter 90. We went downstairs.
Counter 91,92,93...1,2,3... No counter 90. We tried at 91.
"We don't wire money here," we were informed. "Try upstairs on level 2."

We went back up the elevator for the third time. We asked at a random counter.
"Do you have an account?" he asked.
"No," we replied, exhausted. "Then try at counter 52."

We decided we had no choice but to go back to ANZ.

You'll never guess. We now had a brand-new, super-official letter from our employers certifying: we worked there, what we were paid, that we were paid in cash, that the employer was responsible for our taxes. It was signed. It was stamped in RED.

It WORKED. Have a nice day, she said.

And we did.

2003-11-02T00:38:00.000-08:00

Hanoi Rocks

The Vietnamese don't celebrate Halloween. That's fine: the politics are spooky enough.

We had a pretty good Halloween anyhow. We worked from 2pm to our normal 9-9.30. We planned to meet colleagues at a bar a bit of a distance from here, to take in a band fronted by one of the paper's former subs. Cameron and I are so stubborn about paying for transportation, we insist on walking everywhere, and so we set out on foot. The flyer with directions claimed that if you hadn't been there before, it would be rather hard to find, but no matter, we thought.

We got to the edge of the part of town we're familiar with, and looked in the vague direction of the Hong Song, the Red River. We couldn't see it, but we knew it had to be over there somewhere, somewhere past that forbiddingly busy overpass. (or as they say here, fly-over) We walked around it to a point, knowing we'd gone too far and backtracked. Cam pointed out an off-ramp we should take, and I was preparing to say there was no way in hell I'd walk up that in the wrong direction. But I did intend to indulge him and take a closer look at the speeding, onhead traffic until I made my declaration.

Turned out, I didn't need to put my foot down and prove myself a snivelling girl. We watched some locals cross the busy stream of motorbikes and emerge onto the other side, right in front of a pass-point. See, we needed to cross then scramble over the high overpass wall.

Well, we followed the local route, and sure enough there it was: a tire hanging from a rope. Well, we just put our right foot on the tire, grabbed hold of the railing overhead and hoisted ourselves up. Easy as that. We took the stairs down. Apparently the stairs were built there to get over the wall on one side, but I don't suppose the tire was government-issue infrastructure.

Once we were on the other side of the overpass, we were really on the other side of the tracks. The roads seemed made of compacted mud, it was much darker, and our really Halloween-inspired moment came when we crossed under a bridge and watched a little girl riding the only working carnival ride. Up and down she went in the swinging seat, as an empty tune played and a bulbous, cheerful elephant's head winked above her. There are several decommissioned amusement parks here; this was the most eerie of all.

We walked on, asking occasionally for directions and not getting very far with them. We turned one particularly dark corner only to find people more surprised to see us there than we were. A table full of boys saw us coming and stood up, some calling hello, but we kept our pace. I was uncomfortable. We turned another and a teenaged girl took one look at tall Cam and gasped and walked away laughing excitedly, her hands clasped over her mouth.

Just as I was insisting we call it a night of defeat, a motorbike driver pulled up.

Sir? Madam? Motorbike?

We always say no, but we were rather desperate. This guy, however, was one of the many drunk drivers on the road. No thanks pal.

Phuc Tan Bar? he asks.

We asked him where it was, he waved in a general direction, and sure enough we found it about 100m from where we stood.

Inside we watched the band--a trio--cover some Clash songs. One girl dressed as a housewife in curlers, presumably her costume, and two guys, all Westerners, tried to rock out in the middle of the open floor, but their sound man suffered from fairly typical incompetence. The guy ended up yelling at him in Vietnamese over the microphone. When they could get it together it sounded pretty good. I think the girl leaned punk, but the clean-cut guys had their hearts set on metal, and the Czech guy polished off their set with some Eastern European heavy shit, which brought down the house comprised of their friends. You could only dig the mix of nonsense.

Back in the further reaches of the bar, one of the only ones open past 11pm on account of paying off the police, the scene unfolded. Expats of every variety, some in costume, sat at small tables or hit the dancefloor, greeted friends with double pecks on the cheek, and waved at the others, calling them over to share the latest gossip.

It was a lovely club, with two levels of open-air, covered terrace lined with plants and strung with red fabric lanterns overhead, and an amazing view of the Red River.

We drank our beer and left after a time. We picked up some baked croissants for the morning and had no trouble finding the route home, making our way through the dark, muted streets of Ha Noi.

2003-10-26T00:51:00.000-07:00

No more hotel life for us--we have our very own apartment!

I called up a rental agent on Monday night, and met with Tien on Tuesday. I've been through the drill before: you give him some parameters about what you want, he shows up on his motorbike and you climb behind him, hold onto the seat and watch the sites go by as the two of you streak through this mad-traffic city. Tien showed us a couple of places( Cam had to be driven after me), and I liked them both. The second had more character, but it was being renovated so it was hard to visualize finished, plus the bathroom was a little grotty. Girls, do you not agree that creepy bathrooms will just not do at all?

So, we both liked the first one better. We saw it on Tuesday and moved in Wednesday morning. Easiest move I ever made. Usually my moves require recruiting parents and friends, hiring a van, and puffing up and down three flights of stairs in my old character building without lifts. Moving for years has included the hoisting of an akwardly-rolled futon, but not this time! We packed up our two suitcases, got a cab, and there we were.

Our apartment is US$300/month including laundry and cleaning. Utilities are minor but extra. It's a small little place, but not too bad. We have a big bedroom with wardrobe, desk and chair, a living room with couch and chair, shelf, TV (soon to be with cable) and fridge. We've got a little kitchen with sink, kettle, hot plate, and just yesterday we came home and there were kitchen goods there! Yay! Chopsticks, bowls, plates, and a tea infuser and BODUM! These things are precious here, you have no idea. Now if I can just manage to not break it like I have all the others... Have I mentioned all of the floors are a lovely cream ceramic tile? We have an oriental rug in the living area, and a bathtub in the bathroom! Also a luxury.

There are windows in every room. They are shuttered, then screened, then dark wood french-panelled with frosted glass, patterned squares. The doors are also dark wood with frosted glass panels. Crown mouldings. Ceiling fans are integral. We haven't used the air con yet, but I assure you we will.

We had some people over last night for a little housewarming, and we sat out on our private terrace. It's very cute and we took our mother-of-pearl inlaid (classy!) coffeetable outside, along with those teenytiny plastic stools we bought in the oldquarter and drank our big-bottled beers and whiskey.

Gotta go to work! More later.

2003-10-19T02:44:00.000-07:00

I've had a nice Sunday so far. I woke late, had some fruit salad, then took a walk to the hairdressers that had been recommended to me. I got a shampoo, cut, blowdry and straightening for about $4.50. Someone finally cut the shit out of my hair, and I mean that in the best way possible. I asked them (well, showed them a picture, as they didn't speak much English) for a cut with a lot of shag, and they cut my hair faster and better than I've ever had it done before. I think it's rather rock and roll. Next time, I'll get a face massage, too and bring along the fiance. We'll take a pic of Jude Law for that one. Well, Jude Law pre-balding phase that is. Did you know Sadie Frost and her camp are calling him baldie? Just what the hell is Sadie's claim to fame anyway?

I was reading all about those two in the latest edition of NW. At least I think that's what it was called. Some folks from work brought in Australia's answer to People magazine (except slightly more trashy, and devoid of those insufferable "common man triumphs in the face of adversity" stories. I mean, who wants to read about some overweight mom with a cache of kids when we could look at snaps of celebs?) Magazines are like gold here. English mags, anyway. I am dying to read more English books, mags and NEWSPAPERS! The latter is the one I miss most. I miss my coffee (I went from 4 cups a day at home to none here) and paper on Saturday. I think you can get a Bangkok Post somewhere but it's not nearby and is likely pretty expensive. I have gone through a few books and I only have one or two left. That's when the trading with work colleagues will kick in. There is a good shop here, but I haven't made it all the way over there yet. Maybe when we start renting bikes next month.

The rest of my day was spent wandering the old quarter, exploring for good finds. Each street has historically been named after and known for a particular trade. So Hang Bac, my street, is silver street, and you can find many jewellery stores along there. I found streets dedicated to zippers/ribbons; motorbike seats/tailors specialising in denim/army surplus bags; high fashion; tombstones; plastic ware. All markets are in demand. When a street such as coal street no longer finds itself useful, that's when it becomes the new district for wedding cakes.

I found a cluster of stores selling wedding invitations. I might look into that if I can choose a card more understated that one with red hearts and pink satin.

Well, that's it for me. I finished my probation at work and it looks like I'm being kept on. It doesn't hurt at all that someone else quit. Everything really does work out in the end. Now only if he were leaving the country and selling his DVD player for dirt cheap...

Luv, TC
Please drop me a line. I'd love to hear from you.

2003-10-13T03:17:00.000-07:00

Surf and the State

We reached the beachside resort in utter convenience, taking the bus reserved for work outings. That's what's great about editing at a newspaper considered an arm of the State, (State, Government always capitalised): you may have to compromise your journalistic ethics, but you enjoy a few perks.
One of the other sub-editors had invited us to his second wedding, the first having taken place a few weeks ago in his native India with family, this latest one being celebrated in Viet Nam with hers. About 20 of us made the trip 3 1/2 hours south, seven subs, the rest Vietnamese translators. They are the ones who take the Vietnamese press stories and translate them for us to rewrite. The stories need a lot of work:

"The first time doctors have corrected the broken arm for a 3-year old boy at the Viet-German hospital" becomes "Doctors at Viet-German hospital have successfully reattached a three-year-old boy's forearm, the first such surgery performed at the institution." That one was easy. Usually, it takes a lot more detective work to glean what they've intended to say.

So, we pull up to the family home of the Vietnamese bride. (I still don't know the name of the beachside town. People have repeated it, slowly, for me, but until I get a handle on this language I can write little and speak less.) A portable tent was set up on the sidewalk, its colorful fabric walls flapping in the breeze. We were greeted by the groom, in a dress shirt, and the lovely bride in a traditional, pink silk ao dai. Her family invited us to sit down at a long table, at which the food promptly began to arrive. Bite-size chicken pieces, neither boneless nor skinless, fried spinach with garlic, shredded cucumber salad with peanut, warm squid with dill and mushrooms, soup, flavoured sticky rice, pork wrapped in banana leaves, crabs, jumbo prawns to dip in fish sauce. Watermelon pieces for dessert. Beer and sodas aplenty.

We spent about an hour and a half to get through this feast. Apparently that's much longer than most weddings last. People typically just get in, eat, get out. Once that wrapped up, we took our government, oops Government, vehicle to the beach, where we all checked into big rooms with balcony views of the sea. I took a walk with two Aussie colleagues and a recent grad from Columbia in NY alongside the beach, through the deserted streets of this resort town, now in low-season. We came across a pagoda and hiked along the cliffs of Tonkin Bay in the South China Sea.

Dinner was another long table spread with rice, fish, calamari, soup, spinach, clams, omelette, etc, ordered by our Vietnamese colleagues. Room-temperature, bottled beer was set on the table alongside an opener and an ice bucket. Beer on ice is an unexpected pleasure.

I have occasional moments of clarity on living in Viet Nam, when I marvel at where I am. I think my seaside trip was best punctuated by a "Holy, I'm living in Asia" moment, when I was forced to use a squat toilet again and keep the door closed by propping a big stick against it.

We capped off the night by sitting under one of the tarpulins covering the many cafes on the beach. We pulled up deck chairs, listened to the rain overhead while drinking split-ice cooled Johnny Walker Red, courtesy of the groom. Jon, known as Mr. Australia, passed around a cigar and even the tiny Vietnamese girls took big draws from the smoke.

Ha Noi has not been without its difficulties. Work visas, job security, and a lack of a permanent home has been tough. I have since gotten my visa, my job looks good, leaving only one to go. And soon enough, I hope I'll be able to tell you where in the hell I went a couple of weeks ago. And I'll be able to pronounce it, too.

2003-10-13T02:36:00.000-07:00

Packing 'em in

We never did make it to our favourite Ha Noi restaurant that night.

We had just gotten off a long flight and both crashed at about 5pm instead, ruined by jet lag. Cam, trooper he is, managed to sleep through the night. I, on the other hand, was subject to my familiar new-time-zone induced sleeping pattern, and woke up at 1.30am to take in most of What's Love Got to Do With It? on STAR MOVIES. Happy at rolling the dice well on this one, knowing with STAR, I could have gotten Airbud:Seventh Inning Fetch or The Good Son (offerings I have since been forced to watch out of desperation), I marvelled at Angela Basset's biceps. We managed to drag ourselves out of bed and spend a lazy day, buying candy and grazing at the Internet. On returning to our hotel, we noticed the miniscule tourist soap in the middle of the floor. Strange, we thought. I figured it must have gotten stuck on my shoe. Then something else: "Did you finish my candy?" I asked him. "No," said Cam. I knew I hadn't polished it off, but there it was--an empty bag. Someone's been in the room, we realized. "It was probably rats," I offered tentatively, knowing Cam thought me far too sensitive when it came to the critters. Sure enough, I saw something in the corner of the room, and when we pulled the fridge away from the wall, there were a couple of the candies underneath. I shivered.
"You're not going to be able to sleep here," Cam said.
"No kidding. I'll go see if we can change our room," and I went back to reception.
The hotel was full, the same hotel we'd stayed at when we were just tourists in Ha Noi in July, but she'd change our room for us tomorrow. In the meantime, could I borrow that packing tape, I asked?

I handed Cam the scissors as he stood on a chair and taped the wall's paneling from ceiling to floor. We stuffed some of the bigger gaps with plastic bags and taped it all up. I was able to sleep soundly.

We did change the next day. In my haste, I forgot precious cargo in the nightstand drawer: 13 rolls of unused film. This is the same film work colleagues had given me upon leaving the first time. When I left for India in May, I took the 200 ISO, hoping I could have it hand-inspected, but in the event agents would refuse, I could have it go through x-rays without too much potential damage. Agents had no trouble hand-inspecting all of it.
So when I left again, this time for Hanoi, I knew I'd have no trouble with the 400 ISO. I asked for it to be hand-inspected in Calgary, LA and Kuala Lumpur. They all obliged. Now, this precious film I had gone to so much trouble to safeguard was lost forever. I only thought of it about a week later, and by then, either other tourists or the cleaning staff had swiped it. I guess I should be glad it wasn't exposed. Of course, friends and family are probably disappointed it wasn't.

"You do have a very keen sense for the varmints," Cam said.
Yes, I would very keenly like to destroy them all. Damn varmints. Candy and film. They've struck at my very heart.

2003-09-06T17:06:00.000-07:00

Back on the Ho Chi Minh Trail

I betcha thought (for those two still reading) that because my last entry detailed how I got engaged, and I haven't written since, that I'm all "Well, that's it for independent pursuits. I's a married lady now, I'm done." It's all "We think," this and "We plan to do," that from now on. Well, bullocks to you. I've just had a lot on my mind.

When we step on a plane in a few days' time on September 10th, we will have been back in Canada for exactly a month before taking off back to Asia. Cameron and I are taking jobs in Hanoi, Vietnam.

This month has been filled with initial inertia, followed by gluttony, anxiety and errands. We've picked the location for our wedding ceremony, reception, got some idea about a marriage commissioner (I should book Monday), researched and booked a caterer, researched and booked a photographer, made guest lists, tried to sell my car, rushed visas, arranged a flight, talked to all those institutions that like to keep tabs on you, saw family and friends, and watched a lot of tv.

I plan to write more, and on a regular basis, once we're settled. i.e. not homeless. Please cross your fingers for us that it all works out. We're really excited by this, but are completely flying by the seat of our pants. i.e. poor.

Talk to you all soon. Maybe I'll know some Vietnamese then, aside from mastering how to order noodle soup.

Love, Tracy

2003-07-27T04:55:00.000-07:00

Nha Trang, Vietnam, July 24, 2003

Tomorrow was the deep dive--the big plunge.

Our advanced open water course now allowed us to go as far as 30 metres, and tomorrow would be the first time anywhere near that. The depth comes with some dangers, though: you run out of air much more quickly , you can get lost more easily because it's darker, and your chance of decompression sickness, or the bends, increases. In the face of this, I explained to him my fear:
as you ascend at the end of the dive, your buoyancy control device (like a lifejacket) expands with air as pressure decreases. It seemed that on a couple of previous dives, I'd float too quickly to the surface and the insturctor would have to grab my fin to yank me back down. You don't want a runaway ascent, particularly on a deep dive, because of the greater chance of the bends.

"Keep your eye on me, " I pleaded to Cam. "Don't let me get away."

And so we dove deep, to 27 metres and had a good dive, even sharing air with the instructor, Xuan, and a more experienced diver, Maire-Claude, with great comfort. The ascent was a gradual one and while I felt in complete control of my buoyancy, Cam kept a close watch over me.

We got back on the boat for a required surface interval before the morning's second dive. Over coffe we spoke with Marie-Claude, who while in France, dove once every couple of weeks and did it on her own. She was working towards a goal of 20 deep dives before her 50th birthday. Her husband had been on the boat the day before and tried diving for the first time, eager to understand what attracted her to it. He liked it, but didn't want to do it again. Marie-Claude explained to us she'd been diving for three years and loved it underwater--"It's so peaceful down there," she raved.

It is peaceful--quiet, calm, meditative, even. You hear little more than your own breath in and out, bubbles on the exhale. But Cam and I have discovered it together, learning a new skill, growing more relaxed. Marie-Claude's husband is missing out.

Time for thumbs down and air deflators up, we went underwater again for our second dive of the day. Cam laughs at the surface, just before the descent. "What," I ask. "You look cute in your hood, " he smiles. The hood is new for me, and while highly functional, tends to make me look like a seal.

We were down for nearly an hour, practising navigation with a compass, looking at coral, petting a giant moray eel, taking pictures. Cam reached for my hand and we swam side-by-side. We had now mastered our buoyancy and could swim together easily. We'd come so far. Xuan signalled it was time to finish the dive and ascend. I no longer felt anxious: I could control my ascent, plus Cam would look out for me. Cam swam over to the instructor and grabbed her underwater writing slate. I watched him write, sure he'd ask her why we had to head back when we still had air. But when he finished writing, he positioned the slate in my direction.

Will You
Marry
Me
love

I watched those serious eyes behind his goggles as my own filled with tears. We held hands and his question was answered when I made the okay signal. And I nodded just to make sure there was absolutely no confusion. We ascended, Cam not letting me get away. I climbed up the boat ladder after him, and he'd returned from the bow with the ring before my gear was off. He placed the diamond on wet, tanned hands and there were salty kisses, tears, a hug. We'd picked up a lovely ring in Singapore about a month before and he'd been carrying it around ever since, waiting for just the right moment.

It was just the right moment, and it took me by surprise. But this trip has been full of them--speeding by rice paddies on motorbikes in Laos, watching a lightning storm alongside elegant Hanoi's Hoan Kiem lake, dining by the sea in Malaysia, watching the lanterns by the river in Hoi An. The trip has had endless romantic moments--and it's had its adversity. Maybe something like marriage. And as much as we never want this trip to end, we have so much more to look forward to.

2003-07-17T04:13:00.000-07:00

That's Rich

If life can turn on a dime, it seems I'm flush with cash.

I'm carrying pocketfulls of change around, ready at a moment's notice to flip a coin and alter the course of my life.
This week has been momentous, with the weight of my pockets sometimes too heavy with the heads and tails of endless decisions.

We were enjoying the sun and, more gratefully, the temporary shade, of Hanoi, sitting along Hoan Kiem lake, in the centre of a busy and pretty, cosmopolitan city. Halfway through thick Vietnamese coffee and fresh crosissants, I spy an ad for sub-editors at the Vietnam News.

"You should check this out, " I suggest to him.

And he does later that day, strolling over to the news agency's hi-rise building with the hi-polish floors and having a conversation with Mr. Fook. I meet up with him a few hours later, and after I've trolled the city's many art galleries, waking up staff after sleeping staff who sit up startled and quickly flip on lites and fire up the AC when I walk in. I was too gauche at first to know about the early afternoon lunch/nap and then too North American to honour it.

I walk back to our hotel room, the one we've secured for six American dollars a nite, including adjoining bathroom, AC and satellite TV--a deal the city wasn't offering to tourists before SARS.

"How did it go?" I ask casually.
"How would you like to live in Hanoi?" he answers, nonchalant.

And so now for the past five days we've been sizing up our life together: Do we want to live in a foreign country? What about my job prospects? How easy is it to get a work visa? Can we afford to go home and come back? How much is rent?

After five days of fingering the pocket change, we're spent. We've looked at it countless ways and I need to go home. We both have jobs here in September should we want them. It's an attractive option.

We fell in love with this city: couples sit on benches around the cobblestone-ringed lake and watch the sunlight play on the giant weeping willow trees as they hang above the water; pale Vietnamese women don hats and roll flesh-colored gloves onto their arms past their elbows to shield themselves from the sun. Everyone's on a motorbike. Men sit on low plastic chairs on street corners outside Bia Hoi stalls and drink draft beer and slap backs. Women sit and fan themselves or their newborns and eat endless bowls of soup. Loudspeakers positioned on street corners blare, on occasion, what we assume to be communist doctrine.

We have our final meal of the most delicious grilled, ginger-laced aubergine, fried morning glory and sesame beef with citron and chili, and say goodbye, perhaps just temporarily, to our favourite restaurant.

This city has given us more than we bargained for.

2003-07-17T03:32:00.000-07:00

Get Me the Hell to Vietnam

A young Lao entrepreneur sits pensive on the floor at home, working the books after a day on the job at the Internet cafe.

"I've got it, father," he cries enthusiastically. "We can boost profits dramatically if we merely raise our rates by 50 per cent and not tell our clientele!"

This is, at least, how I'd imagine the exchange went at home one day. We had been frequenting the cafe in Vientiane a few days in a row. Then on the last day, killing time between hotel checkout and our bus' scheduled departure, we spent two hours dawdling online. When we went to pay, the total was out of sync with what we'd paid before.

"19,000 kip? Why so much this time?" Cam asked.

The shrewd Lao points to a small sign overhead. Overnight, the rate has gone from 100 kip per minute to 150. We are pissed. And yet again our deep-rooted beliefs in proper Western business practises bubble to the surface.

"You can't just change your prices and not tell your customers! You can't up your rates by 50 per cent and not let people know about it," I said sternly.

It seems like a sweet deal to the Lao looking to make some quick cash; but he was already losing customers who heard the exchange, and logged off to go to another cafe down the street, a cafe charging the standard 100 kip/minute.
But try to explain that to him, and you just come off as a surly Western know-it-all. Free enterprise is still working out the kinks in Laos.

Good progress could be made if their entire population got a handle on the three currencies: the kip, the Thai baht, and the almighty American dollar (which hasn't been as strong as usual, to the advantage of our Canadian buck).
While most transactions are seamless, we sometimes come across tears in the fabric: Trying to buy bus tickets at our hotel, I want to pay the $22 American price in kip, Cam in baht. The hotelier says it's too difficult for him, so we take our business elsewhere. Hell, if two math remedials can do it, anyone can, but it's like shifting from one rudimentary-level language to another.

For instance: a beer is 7000 kip. There are 250 kip to a Thai baht, a currency we prefer for the smaller numbers and because it's 30 baht to a Canadian dollar. Seven times four...My nose crinkles and lines form on my forehead with the enormity of the numerical task. Cam's jaw goes slack and his gaze loses focus, vaguely settling on a plane far, far away.

Bus tickets bought, time killed, beer quaffed, we wait back at our hotel for the night bus to pick us up. It's expected to arrive at 6, but we get there at 5 just to be sure. Six o'clock quickly rolls around. No bus. 6:15. Well, things to be lax here. 6:30 and we're nervous. By ten to 7, the bus was to have left the city 20 minutes ago and we've just been fucked over.

"This is BULLSHIT," Cam spits. "I'm going to give that travel agent a piece of my mind." He is livid.

Our hotelier asks if we'd like him to, for a fee, call the guy who is supposed to pick us up. He won't take baht change, we're hesitant to part with our small amount of precious American cash, and as we're leaving the country, we've dispensed with all our kip. We are to understand that if left with Lao currency, you're S-O-L, because no one else will honour it.
Angry but desperate, we break a dollar and have him make the call. The driver forgot us, but is now on his way.

Our hotelier gives us back our change. My wallet is now full with useless Lao kip.

2003-07-08T01:32:00.000-07:00

I can't seem to string together my thoughts and experiences right now in any measure of cohesion, so here's a list of cool stuff I saw or did or ate recently:

Having Asian elephants snozzle up bananas from my hand and pitching them into their mouths.
Riding elephants.
Never getting enough of the elephants.

Enjoying the misty hilltops along the Mekong River on a 2-day slow boat trip from Northern Thailand to Luang Prabang, Laos.

Eating huge bowls of rice noodle soup with loads of cilantro and chili sauce every morning.

Rich Lao coffee.

Thatch-roof and bamboo houses everywhere. Cone-like bamboo hats, too.

Using my umbrella as a parasol as well as, well, an umbrella.

The old man and I rocking the 100 cc motorbikes out to a huge waterfall, alternately stopping to take photos of rice paddies and kicking into TOP GEAR.

Burberry's perfume from the Duty-Free shop.

Fresh fruit shakes made with ice, green melon and coconut cream.

Non-budget accommodation in Singapore with robes, clean bathrooms, TV and leather desk chair!

2003-06-27T06:26:00.000-07:00

Wetsuit Sans Seadoo

My hair hasn't been fully dry since last Tuesday. And my calves haven't been pain-free since the day after that. That was the day we went snorkelling the first time, slapping our fins against the turquoise Malaysian water, attracting the intense sun to my fleshy, white, Canadian legs. Snorkelling wasn't enough though, so we took a 4-day course in SCUBA diving, (or The Underwater World, intones the PADI, or Professional Association of Diving Instructors, corporate video, hiding no sense of wonder,) and now we're certified Open Water Divers.

"The only frontier left for us: space," I inform him.

We've now had four dives, officallly logged, in the South China Sea off Tioman Island, considered one of the world's best spots to dive. I can't tell you how much coral and can't possibly list the varieties of tropical fish I've seen in the 28-degree Celsius waters, mostly because I can identify neither flora nor fauna of any sort. I can tell you that breathing with a regulator underwater has become second-nature, (after some sound, initial terror) but I still run emergency scenarios through my mind throughout the day:

MAKE THROAT SLASH MOTION TO BUDDY, SIGNALLING "OUT OF AIR." TAKE HIS ALTERNATE AIR SOURCE. PURGE, BREATHE, CALM.
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DO NOT PANIC.
(But relax, says the PADI textbook, diving should be fun.)

The introduction to The Underwater World is likely the culprit behind the dreams I'm having --ship capers involving villains, plunging off the bow, and Kate Winslet. My main concern, though, is what I look like all geared up. "How do I look in my wetsuit?" I ask. "You look hot," he replies smartly, without missing a beat. And he looks cool, zipper up the leg to the chin, hair tousled.

Meet people, go places, do things, we recite, zombie-like, from the text. We remain unconvinced PADI is not a cult.

When we're not snorkelling or diving, we're lounging or eating: fresh garlic butter prawns, grilled squid, bbq stingray (also spotted underwater, and delicious) red snapper with chili sauce. Breakfasts are standard, but the fresh orange or watermelon juice, put in a blender until frothy and served with big chunks of ice in a parfait cup, are the best I've tasted.

The island is green and lush and plump with flowers and fruit. Ocassionally, you'll hear the crackling of fronds and then a dull thud as a coconut falls from a palm and hits the sand. Strolling anywhere, you hear the Malays call out hello in a sing-song and smile. At sunset, you go for a swim or swing in a hammock with a book. At dusk or just after, you hit a restaurant on the beach and watch the shrieking fruit bats in the trees, or the little kids, tooling around on their bikes, clad in pajamas and ready for bed. Crumbs of banana cake popped into mouths, we make our way back to our cabin right on the beachfront, turn on the fan to circulate the humid air and crawl under the green mosquito net strung from the ceiling.

"Good night, scuba," I say.
"Good night, my little aqua-naut," he replies.

And we dream of the underwater world.

2003-06-27T05:28:00.000-07:00

Yes, the Beatles came here

Rishikesh was just the ticket for our final Indian destination before heading off on the second leg of our trip: it was easy.

After spending a night in Shimla, paying outrageous amounts for bad-value rooms, jostling among the throng of Indian tourists wanting photos with us, being sick in a town without water for a night, Rishikesh was perfect. We found a cheap room right away and it was cool and the proprietor was friendly and we had our own bathroom, with water. And Rishikesh is the place I found my yoga pants. Light as a feather, in my favorite clothes color (black), and hanging well, they tend to elicit "those are great pants" remarks from others and make me stop Cam in the middle of the street to tell him how much I love my new pants, and him, of course.
I even had a chance to do some yoga in them. About seven of us turned up for the early-morning classes two days in a row, here in the world's capital for the practice. We followed along with our young Indian teacher, stretching "slowly, slowly" as his eyes rolled up under his lids, showing only the whites. Clad in an orange t-shirt emblazoned with OM in Hindi, he urged us to join him as he chanted in a higher pitch than I was expecting. The girl next to me with the celtic knot tattoo didn't, but I did, trying to harmonize. A regular yogic Sylvia Tyson.

We've been extremely lazy here; we spend our days eating brunch, then dinner. And it seems you go out in search of incense one day and you burn all the time in between. Cam is in search of the perfect grilled cheese. I usually order one, he covets it and we return to the same restaurant so he can order it the next morning. We've abandoned all efforts to eat indigenous; it's full-on Italian for us here. I've had delicious pasta and we've both enjoyed pizza, although Cam is certain he spotted a boy through the window carrying a take-out bag suspicously-shaped like a pizza into the kitchen's back entrance. "They farmed it out," he said, incredulously. It wasn't unlikely: we eat two meals a day, so we're hungry for that second one pretty early, while the rest of the civilized world eats at 8. It appears the kitchen staff isn't on duty until at least 7 o'clock. Which is probably why they kept asking me if my pizza was good--I bet they pulled Joe the Sweeper Boy in off the street to make the pie; the real chef wasn't on for an hour or more.

We spent the rest of our time here watching a new species of monkeys on the tree-canopied path leading to the mad part of Rishikesh; crossing back and forth over the Ganges on suspension bridges; watching the Sadhus in their colorful robes line each side of the walk, one with a prosthetic detached and placed beside him (an image I silently titled A Man and his Leg.)

The last night here I took some photos on the river Ganges. Hordes come here to bathe, with the men and boys wading in fully, stripped to shorts and splashing. The older gents dip up and down repeatedly. The women are on the periphery and scoop water gently onto themselves; only the occasional one will immerse herself fully clothed. Crowds gather on the ghat steps and sing songs; they buy small offerings of marigolds, incense and tea lights placed in little round pie plates and float them onto the river. Little flickering lights in the dusk.

2003-06-12T07:48:00.000-07:00

On the Precipice

Whoever thought I'd come all the way to an exotic place like India and dine on four exquisitely boiled potatoes? (Add salt to taste.)

It may have been one of my most enjoyable meals yet. (Add a lot of salt.) They were even better than the package of biscuits the night before. I'd been feeling nauseous, unsure whether the cause was the altitude, at 3500 metres, or the antibiotics. I had been taking the pills in efforts to rid myself of that most common of ailments of the delicate Western bowel. The pills weren't working. Unless, of course, they were designed to make one feel utterly gastric and hopeless. So the boiled potatoes were just what the doctor ordered, if not for the delicate Western bowel, then for the delicate, nauseous Western stomach. The Lariam, however, while ordered by the doctor himself, did not fit the bill. The strong malaria preventative was disrupting my sleep. I usually have bad dreams, but they don't generally wake me up at night. I was now having dreams stemming from the invasive tactics of our last hotelier. For a girl who likes privacy of turf, I'd found he had simply been around too much, coming into the room unannounced, siring children who liked to lock our doors from the outside, etc. But what woke me one night was not nagging dreams, but the sound of the rodents. We never did see them, so were unsure whether to refer to them as rats or mice, ( I favored mice) but all the guests heard them. At a distance, listening to them rustling about in the attic overhead was tolerable, but it was when I could hear them scrambling in the dark of my own room that I reached the nadir of the trip, here in the Himalayan summits. My whimpering gave way to some terrified yelling. Cam woke up and turned on the lights, didn't see rats, soothed me and stopped my crying . I was sleep-starved, nauseous, hungry, grubby, smacked out on Lariam, and diorrhea-prone. Things could only look up.

Believe it or not, while my interior wasn't at its peak, the surrounds were spectacular. It's been our favorite place in India. The village is surrounded by mountains, adjacent to a mean river, a lot of trees and farmland. I can hear my sister now, as she'll look at my photos some day and ask, "Why did you go all the way to India to take pictures of what looks like British Columbia?" Answer: BC doesn't have yaks, complete quiet, horses carrying ammo for the Indo-Tibetan border patrol, friendly villagers in regional dress of grey woolen hats with jaunty green felt flaps. And you can't vacation there on five dollars a day.

It's a good thing we enjoyed it so much because it was a bitch to get there. We bussed it down from McLeod Ganj, taking an overnight stop in Shimla after ten hours, then getting up in the morning and doing another ten-hour run. We've somehow relegated ourselves to the public buses, rather than the chartered tourist coaches, and as such, cover relatively small distances in disturbingly large chunks of time. It's the worst of both worlds: covering about 30 kilometres every hour and driving like madmen. How, you ask? Steep climbs and many, many stops. The scheduled stops are designed to take on more passengers and generate more money. The unscheduled stops, of which we've had four in the last four trips, are of the bus has broken down or gotten a flat and we'll all stand around for an hour-and-a-half while it's repaired variety, and can only be designed to generate great frustration. The delays have run the gamut: kid decides to deposit his partially-digested lunch on the seat; goats are in need of herding; roads need ad-hoc paving without need for organized supervision; rockslides.

Once we reached our remote location, I wondered what my mother would be most horrified to learn: that the bus rides took place at ridiculous speeds on rutty, one-lane roads cut into the sides of mountains, thousands of feet up, where all corners are blind and involved backing up on narrow precipes to find common ground to let another bus or one of many gravel trucks by after near head-on collisions; or that we were forced to deliberately stick an electrical device into a bucket of water in the usual way of getting hot water, or that I had to receive medical care in the third world, er, a developing nation.

Health care is not a private affair in this country; matters seemingly confidential are not the domain of just patient and doctor. Cam and I arrived at the clinic just before it opened for the day, so we were sent into a room to wait for the doctor. The open door was ostensibly an invitation to my fellow patients to slowly walk by and gawk. And then when the doctor showed, and he and I discussed my symptoms, the entire room crowded just inside the door, and rushed his desk after he wrote out my prescription. ("They may not be USDA-approved, but they work just fine in India.") It was filled by laughing women who recognized the treatment for that common Western bowel ailment, and who laughed and waved away payment when they saw me clutching a 100-Rupee note: payment was one-quarter of one Rupee--less than one cent Canadian.

And who said I needed health insurance?

2003-05-29T08:02:00.000-07:00

Climate of Cool

It’s become apparent my nature is inclined towards conspicuous consumption.

After weeks in India getting by on little more than water, dhal and chapatis, I’m like a Russian in America for the first time. McLeod Ganj, at the foot of the Himalayas, has all the comforts of home, and I’m finding I want them all. Currently on my list: an ayurvedic beauty bar, fruity shampoo, pashmina shawl, scarf, big-ass necklace pendant, a pedicure, a Buddhist monk maroon sleeveless shirt and messenger bag. Suddenly, I want to try all the packs of foreign cigarettes, the coconut cake and the chocolate one, I want some of the brightly-packaged biscuits just because they’re stocked on the shelves in neat rows, and I even covet the variety of colored, individually-wrapped toilet paper, imported just for us unhygienic ferengis. I don’t need toilet paper yet; I’m still good with the roll I brought. It’s amazing how Cam and I can drink litres of water and only pee twice a day. Of course, up until we hit this cooler mountain climate, we were sweating buckets. It works really well, actually, as when you’re out and about during the day, the last thing you need is to hit up a public facility. I was forced to just the once, but I’ll spare the details. Suffice to say, my entire body was physically wracked with horror, and my expression on exiting the latrine, the one Cam calls my toilet face, is apparently highly amusing.

McLeod Ganj is the spot for massage therapists, dope smokers, Reiki practitioners, those contemptuous of suburban America, the dreadlocked, yoga enthusiasts, loud Israelis, midlife Western women taken to wearing traditional Tibetan dress, Osho novices who practice law, and those looking to meditation to cure their irritable bowel.

We dig into our lamb momos and overhear a conversation at a nearby table. A young English woman complains of a blocked chakra:

“And when I use the toilet, I’m peeing, and I completely black out. My consciousness goes dark.”
An older woman listens sympathetically.
“And this man,” the young girl continues, bitterly, “he has this amazing amount of energy. I’ve figured out he’s stealing it from others. He’s been stealing my energy.”
The sage woman offers her advice to nip this problem in the bud. It’s not completely audible from where I’m sitting, but it sounds practical, and most importantly, it’s delivered in a soothing manner. The nurturing woman who talks others down has always held an esteemed place in the drug scene.

Aside from the scene, there's the scenery, unparalleled in its beauty. Snow-capped Himalayan peaks, gently sloping valleys of trees, Buddhist monks walking the dirt paths wearing hip footwear and Discmans at their hips, the homes scaling the cliffs and their lights scattered in the darkness, the barking of dogs in the distance and the flute player's tune floats up from the street below. Incense is burning nearby. Rows of internet surfers email back home, while those in the adjoining restaurant enjoy veggie lasagna and swat away the flies.

Tonight, I’m sitting in the room, with the door open to the night valley before me, allowing the cigarette smoke to escape, a Godfather beer at my side. Cam is playing chess with Eric, a German we met on the bus from Pathankot. Earlier we saw the residence of the Dalai Lama and spun the prayer wheels a full rotation at the adjacent temple.

“Free Tibet," we say to one another, as if a prayer before tucking into a meal at Nick’s Italian Kitchen. “And damn the Chinese, “ we should add. I meet up with a Tibetan refugee tomorrow to help him practice his conversational English, as promised. I can only hope his English is rudimentary enough for me to understand what I expect to be a compelling story.

2003-05-29T07:27:00.000-07:00

I’m still in India, but I feel I’ve left the country proper a number of days ago. It happened when we hit Punjab. Suddenly, the train stations seemed cleaner, roaming pigs were nowhere to be seen, the cows were tied up, the landscape was more lush, the people more prosperous. Punjabi men are more stately than the slight Hindus, more have pot-bellies and of course many wear the large and regal turbans. The Sikhs have been impressive with their welcome. We stayed at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, Sikhdom’s most holy place, and a significant site of pilgrimage. We knew the complex invited people of all denominations into its accommodations, and we anticipated sleeping apart in a dorm-like setting. Instead, we were checked into a large private room, one of the 600 available for a small donation, with a view of the nine-story tower, the Baba Atal. We waited until sunset for better photography light, and for cooler stones onto which we’d set our bare feet. We checked our shoes and padded into the community kitchen. The hall feeds 50 thousand free meals a day and operates like clockwork. We filed into the hall, grabbing a tin plate and water bowls on the way in. Then we found a place on the mat on the floor with the lines of others. Volunteers, who consider it an honour to serve meals or dispense advice or wash down the walkways, come around and quickly dole out food. One pass will yield mung dhal ladled from a bucket, another water poured from a large kettle, and yet another round will see a grinning man tossing chapatis delightedly into the cupped hands of the cross-legged below him. We eat and file out. The bhuratta, or scarf, of my salwar suit has come in handy, as the inner precincts of the Golden Temple require the head to be covered. Cam has fashioned the loongi he bought in Bangladesh over his, and I’ve gathered it at the back with a ponytail elastic. In to the Golden Temple itself, a 2-story building surrounded by a huge pond called the Pool of Nectar. It no longer feels like India, as there’s no trash and it’s completely organized. We walk with the hundreds of others, slowly, on the cool, white, clean marble, pilgrims stopping to make prayer hands at head and chest at certain significant stops. Inside the temple itself, the crowd crushes forward for a glimpse of the holy men reading the scripture, and toss donations onto the pile of cash and flowers, some of the pious bring food offerings. Immediately outside the inner sanctum, they bend and scoop water from the pool and drink and toss bread to the eager fish below. The place is so peaceful. No one wants anything, no one is selling anything. We talk with some youth about politics, bold girls of about 18 come up to me to ask the standard questions: “What is your name? Where are you from? What is your profession? Is that your husband?” The volunteers smile in welcome, others are curious. A man bold enough to ask us about ourselves creates a crowd. It’s been a highlight.

2003-05-25T10:05:00.000-07:00

"You have Indian feet," he states, grimly viewing my ground-in dirt, my ring-around-the-collar, my no ancient Chinese secret feet. But I don't really, at least they look nothing like the feet I've spied on trains and buses throughout the North.

One woman wearing an emerald-green sari and sharing a bus seat with husband and young son folded her legs up under her. Hers are smooth, brown, wearing rings and bronze polish. No dirt on those. Another wraps her sari closer, bending her knees into her, and after slipping off her silver sandals, her toes curl over the lip of the dusty vinyl seat. They are polished with pearl, and luminescent. The dust on the train's pale blue vinyl seats is undeniable; the grit on the bus is indelible. But passengers come prepared: they sling big plastic canteens across the seat backs in front of them, or on hooks by the window's passing landscapes. Couples and families take turns uncapping the bottle, holding it over their mouths to take a drink. Then after eating a messy mango, a process which begins by drinking the juice from holes punched in both ends, they'll hold the canteen over their sticky hands and cleanse them out the window. It's everything out the window: mango peels, water bottle, the newspaper the deep-fried pakora came in.

We're nearing our stop, so she flings her scarf from her head and fixes her hair, smoothing it from her face, re-clipping the silver barrettes, uncoiling her hair and winding it up again into a bun, the choir of bangles on her arm jostling musically. The damp face cloth comes out of a baggie and she gives a quick swipe to her face and the back of her neck. Sleeping daughters on the laps of their dads are woken, prepared. We all step off, putting many different feet to pavement, into the bustle and heat of the next city.

2003-05-25T09:41:00.000-07:00

The Sacred Cow

As far as I know, it's the first time a 12-year old boy has cooked my breakfast.

"What's your name?" he asked me.
"Tracy," I said. "What's yours?"
"Naimesh," he answered.
And our pronunciations both stumble over the other.

We took the standard issue notepad and wrote down our breakfast order: 2 X Mineral Water, 1 Museli, 1 Banana Porridge. Naimesh scanned it, read it back to us unsteadily and was on his way. He was in the kitchen for awhile, chopping fruit and busying about, the only one up on this hazy morning. He padded back, sure-footed, and delivered to us delicious meals on the silver tray familiar to all of India's restaurants.

Making our way back from the day and up the stone path to our Dream Heaven Guesthouse, I note with a smile that cow again. It's perhaps the sweetest cow in the country. Lying contentedly, she is young, pure white, clean and not surrounded by rubbish. She sits half in, half out of the shade, in the same nook of the hotel entrance at the same time each day.

I climb the concrete steps, followed by the impossible iron stairway to get to our landing. Naimesh is there, leaning over the rail, looking out at the rooftops. The sun is golden now, the wind has picked up, and the boys from good homes, the ones not on the streets, are flying their kites in the waning sun. I get Naimesh's attention, pointing down to the sweet cow and say, "Is that your pet?" He struggles to understand. "Your pet," I try again.
"Pet?" he scrunches his face. "Not pet. God," he informs, reverent.

I nod and he smiles. I go back to my room and shut the door, knowing this lapsed Catholic can renew her faith at any time, with just a quick trip down to the bottom of the hotel steps.

2003-05-21T00:06:00.000-07:00

The Flip Side

No morning that starts at 4:30 can really start well.

Ours was no exception: up early to catch an early bus, but our rickshaw driver didn't pick us up to head to the bus station as promised. We hoofed it to Jagdish Temple, a place we'd seen earlier, inundated with rickshaws vying for business, and hoped for the best. In the pre-dawn, we stood looking for a ride, amid the surreal bell-pealing of the Hindu Temple and the eerie milling of the cows. Imagine a traffic circle, a roundabout, with no green space in the middle, scatter liberally with garbage, add a pinch of urine smell on every corner, throw in 15 cows, and picture the perimeter of the circle ringed with shops measuring about 5 feet in width. That's an Indian intersection. They vary in size.
By some miracle, a driver appeared from the near-dark and following our instructions, "Bus station. Fast," he got us there with minutes to spare.

We were ready to sack out on the bus, but I quickly found it wasn't meant to be. I was carrying two water bottles and keeping them close to the body was out, because it just resulted in clamminess. Well, resting your hand on your thigh resulted in clamminess. Hell, so did just sitting there with no limb touching another. So down on the ground between my feet went the water. I should also mention mine was the aisle seat, and it was without an outside armrest. Pair this deficiency with a bus driver who likes to take corners at breakneck speed and the odds of falling into the aisle on your ass increases tenfold. I tried to brace my feet to take the corners and not fall out of my chair, but the bottles would roll. Then there's the horn. Everyone in India makes good use of it. Painted on the backs of some rickshaws is "HORN PLEASE." It may be the only policy the Hindus follow to a t. Generally, I've tuned the sound out, but this driver brought it to a whole new level: the use of his horn was frequent, sustained, shilll and without reason. And his spring-coiled seat was in desperate need of oiling.
I slept sporadically, arriving at the hotel after some more rickshaw wrangling and the host said we could sign in later because I "looked tired." I checked in the mirror to see for myself: eyes small, bridge of nose beaded with sweat, clothes rumpled and dirty, hair a nest in pigtails.
If ever I thought the bloom not off this rose yet, it's certainly wilted under the harsh desert sun.

2003-05-16T01:29:00.000-07:00

Taj Against the Machine

Cam's a little stuffy today, so we're taking it easy and staying away from the sites. I took his under-the-weatheredness as an opportunity to strike out on my own for the first time here. We're in Udaipur, slightly off the main tourist track, in low season, so things here have been considerably quieter. I thought that would mean I could handle things like the independent chick I am, wander about at my leisure, shop with some autonomy, etc. It would appear not. I was all of 1 1/2 hours under the blazing sun by myself, wandering lost in this maze of small streets known as the Venice of the East. I didn't panic, but I was uncomfortable without Cam's sense of direction and fierce protection. Without it I felt vulnerable, leered at, chatted up.

Plus, there was the bull.

I was charged by a horned beast, twice, and I'm lucky he gave up so easily. I merely felt my body surge with adrenaline and I pulled a few matador moves, getting out of the way quickly so he never made contact. I actually screamed, and was grateful there was no one around to snicker. Also on my trip, I left my salwar kameez with a tailor to have taken in. I don't know if I'll ever find that shop again.

As I said, no big sites to see today. Not like just a few days ago when we were in Agra to see the Taj Mahal. You go through the main gate and are immediately struck by its being probably the most picturesque scene you've ever taken in. An awesome dome of marble, impeccably manicured grounds, symmetry in its trees and reflecting pools, exotic birds flying about. There's one place where every couple gets their photo professionally taken--Cam says I'm sure if you go into any middle class Indian's home, that photo will be placed prominently. So we had one of the few guys who spoke English and knew something about cameras take a shot of us with my camera. Too bad that such a gorgeous vista will be sullied by the site of a rumpled girl in pigtails sweating profusely. At least at that point I wasn't shuffling about in the little felt booties they provide to protect your bare feet from the hot stone. Nerdilicious.

Cam and I also turned out to be a bit of a tourist attraction of our own. Many asked us for our picture, taking turns plopping the various kids between us and snapping away, making sure the whole family got in. Perhaps Cam and I will be in the photo albums of many middle class Indian families. Perhaps it's my big-ass hat, or the fact Cam is so tall and has been told he resembles a New Zealand cricket player. Cricket's all the rage here, and it's the only sport I think Cam really follows. We had a TV in one of our hotel rooms and I got a taste of what some women must go through during hockey season, football playoffs, etc.

Taking my vitamins and wearing 45 SPF,
Tracy

2003-05-15T03:27:00.000-07:00

Girl's Got Grit

What isn't pollution hanging in the air's haze is dust. Which isn't surprising: it's hot, it's the desert, there's a proliferation of the 2-stroke engine auto rickshaw. I'm covered in dust daily, from head to toe. Those tan lines on my sandaled feet are not just from the sun. Cam likes to point out when I have a particulrly noticeable smear on my face. This time his index finger motioned to an anomaly on my right cheek and he said "It's not so much a dirt smear, as a clean spot surrounded by dirt."

"Do you love me even when I'm full of grime?" I asked.
"I love you even more because of the grime," he says. "You're in the trenches with me now."

And we occasionally smoke our cigarettes in those trenches, walking up to one of many kiosks and buying them in singles for four ruppees apiece. We make our way there by walking on the road, sharing it with the rickshaws, the scooters, motorcycles carrying families of four, the cars, bicycles, occasional camels and others among India's one billion people. I stop to admire a goat--aaa-aaa-aaa.
"Oooh, it's so cute. And so filthy."

Living harmoniously on the busy street with the goats are the pigs. I see one suckling at his mom, the sow in turn munching on a pile of garbage. India's animal kingdom of course is not complete without the cow--just a couple of feet away, one is fully immersed, lying in the rubbish, chewing contentedly. Some cows are apparently more discerning, though. We waited briefly outside for a restaurant to roll up its metal shutters and open for the night, when a cow sauntered up, stopped and looked in at this restaurant. Perhaps he'd read the Lonely Planet recommendation, too. The owner motioned at it, as if telling it to wait, he won't be sorry, and he came out with stale chapatis for the bovine. The street takes care of its own.

But it's not all grime, there's so much beauty: the crimson scarf of a Rajasthani woman's sari as it blows in the wind; another jewel-toned garment lined with gold thread, worn by a woman riding side-saddle on the back of a motrobike; grown men who walk hand in hand and young boys, such great pals, have their arms flung over one another's shoulders; a family send-off at the bus station adorning each other with garlands of flowers; the selling of spices, marigolds, everything in the bazaars; delicious cheese paneer, served countless ways in countless curries, in which to dip roti, straight from the tandoori oven; a mango yogurt-like drink, the omnipresent lassi; the coolness of the ceiling fan after a cool shower, the room a reprieve from the sun and 45-degree heat, the ceiling colored like the night sky, maroon Indian print curtains blowing in the breeze. We'll make our way to the rooftop cafe in awhile, but first, after an overnight, 10-hour bus journey, first we'll sleep.

2003-04-22T22:24:00.000-07:00

So, I think this here cowpoke is going to mosey on off into the sunset.

I've been avoiding the net because I'm all wrapped up in earth shattering decisions and lingering questions: will the nylon trek pants be too hot? will Lariam stay in my system for years and cause birth defects when i need to get pregnant(eek!), or alternately, will it merely trip some psychotic episode(who could tell?), should I get the traveller's cheques in Canadian or US funds?(I went Canadian), do I take film with me and risk it being ruined or buy it over there and possibly pay more? can I pet the monkeys?

I can't seem to take the time out to surf and visit y'all or post a decent story or musing, so I think I'll do my send off here and now.
Thanks for coming to visit. I'm off on May 3rd to India for a month and a half of staying in ashrams, eating roti, drinking the lassi, and hiking with the Himalayas off in the distance, oh yeah, and sweating profusely. Then in June, we head to a Malaysian island for a week of relaxation with snorkeling and general loafing. Then it's on to Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos, where there will be bursts of traveling followed by lazing about, eating and picture-taking for another month and a half. Honestly, that part of the trip is entirely unplanned.
I will likely see 2 of some of the Wonders of the world: the Taj Mahal in Agra, India, and Angkor Wat in Cambodia, providing it's not going to cost me an arm and a leg--speaking of which--I ran into an old friend and told him how I was going on this massive trip. I mentioned how we didn't have the last leg planned, and I said "I don't really know anything about Cambodia" and he said, completely seriously, "Well, they have an appetite for mass genocide." Haw! I said well, I know about that, but, you know, where does one eat?

I have just ten days to go before I leave and I still have some shopping and lots of house-packing to do, my internet's cut off Friday, I have a work send-off, and another piss-up and various coffee-with-acquaintances planned, so I should get away from my neglected lover, Monsieur Computer.

Speaking of the hot stuff, I am so looking forward to meeting up with my boyfriend, Cam, already in India. He and I have been emailing quite frequently and the two of us are too cynical to be writing as cornily as we are. God, I love him and can't wait to see him. So, you see, when I'm not running practical errands or agonizing over whether or not I should bring capris, I'm lying prostrate at my man-shrine, pining over the temporary loss of the man in my life and trying helplessly to open the tight seal of that blasted pickle jar.

I may post infrequently, while I stop into cafes and check email. I may do it as much as every week or so, but I'm not making it a priority. So basically, if you're surfing and think to yourself sometime in June, "I wonder if Tracy wound up sunstroked on a beach?" why don't you check in? I'd love to have you.

Take care.

Hoping I don't come down with rabies, crossing my fingers I'll look good in a Salwar Kameez (sp?), and taking care I'll always have toilet paper on my person,
wish me well!

Love,

Tracy

2003-04-15T22:59:00.000-07:00

Hey Kim, It's a Trap!

Maybe the US knows its strong-arming will only go so far. Now that it has bombed the shit out of Afghanistan, rolled over Iraq, and threatened Syria, it knows it must change its tack.

And so we see a little meeting set up between Bush and North Korean president, Mr. Kim Jong "Hello! You don't need to uncover weapons of mass destruction, I've got em," Il.

Where is it? Beijing. Sure, safest place in the world. I can see Bush rubbing his hands together with glee, but I can't see his face because it's covered by an N-95 mask.

It's an easier transition from hawk to fox, than hawk to dove.

(*Update: Beijing's problem is worse than first thought. Wonder what that does to their Olympic bid?)

2003-04-13T16:29:00.000-07:00

HOLY SHIT

Canadian Mike Weir just won the Masters! CAN-A-DA! CAN-A-DA!

So I watched the only real sports event I see all year. I don't know what it is that draws me in: I don't play golf; I tried it but like most things, I'm too impatient to stick with it. But the Masters has the great camera shots, the narration, the gentle clapping, the scenery, the storylines, the calibre of play, the name-recognition, which, for a total non-sports fan like me, is quite satisfying.

I usually cheer for poor, sweet Phil Mickelson. He's a sucker's Hugh Grant. See, Phil looks a little like Hugh, just with a pot-belly. And he's such the underdog. His wry grin, inconsistency, and always the bridesmaid, never the bride schtick never fails to make me want him, er, pull for him. I also have a thing for Jesper Parnevik and his crazy pants, but I don't know where he's disappeared to. I remember realizing everyone thought Jesper was a bit of a nerd, and I thought I was fighting for another underdog, and then I saw his wife, and I thought, man he doesn't need me standing up for him. All the freaking blonde wives in golf. It's worse than hockey. I don't want to know what Phil's wife looks like because he'll lose my sympathy.

But Weir! What a rock. Not too long ago I didn't give Weir a second thought. He wasn't in the same league as the others and was always finishing waaaaaaay down the list. It got so if I'd have to read sports on-air, I wouldn't bother with Weir, even if you normally include the Canadian. I didn't because, in my eyes, he wasn't a contendah. But now, he's fabulous. And I'm very proud. I understand he's gone through some rigorous training and re-evaluation of his game and it seems like it's worked this year. Good for him. I thought it was pretty funny the announcers seemingly couldn't let Tiger go: they kept showing his shots and praising most of them, not giving him too much flack for the miscues. His camera time did not match his score. Today he got an embarrassing 75, which was higher than amateur Ricky Barnes. (Holy lock up your daughters! One of the announcer's said he had the face of a nasty angel. Watch and watch out for this guy.) But they still showed Tiger, and you could tell they put the camera on Weir almost begrudgingly. When they did, they didn't have much praise for him. "Oh, I don't know if he's got the strength to get that where he needs it." "He's made some mistakes, but he's managed to save himself." etc.

All I can say is Weir deserved it. And, take that Hootie. Poor Hootie, first the Blacks want in, then the women, and now a freakin' Canadian wins at his precious Augusta. Sheet, they don't even have our backs over there in Eye-rack..

Hey, if anyone is familiar with, and successful at, the sudden death overtime, it's a Canadian. Call it the home ice advantage. Now if it could only work for Edmonton.

2003-04-11T22:21:00.000-07:00

I just saw Personal Velocity, drunk. I'd just like to say Fairuza Balk has my old haircut, which boring breeder Catherine Zeta-Jones tried to copy in Chicago, but which we did better than Ms. My Husband's Connected in Hollywood So He Can Damn Well Buy Me an Oscar. I've missed Fairuza Balk since Gas, Food, Lodging. Other than Almost Famous, where has she been? Speaking of Gas, Food...what the hell happened to Ione Skye? And does she still sleep in the park, under the stars and on top of a sleeping bag, with Keanu?

2003-04-11T18:08:00.000-07:00

Friday nite, I just wanted to say you rawk!

I know you love the shotgun and our road trip was a short one (work-home), but you are the greatest co-pilot when I'm picking up the expensive chocolates, videos and red wine. You like the car stereo as loud as I do.

You are so awesome for totally not batting an eye when I got home and slipped immediately into the pajama bottoms and comfy tee. We should totally have a pillow fight later!

Thanks for being such a total galpal for persuading me to make that healthy stirfry instead of rocking the drive-thru.

Muchos gracias for letting me bum a smoke and not cocking a brow as if to infer I thought you weren't smoking anymore.

You are so cool for not exclaiming God your face is so red! because of said wine-drinking.

I lurve you and want to best friends forever. Bracelets for us both!

2003-04-10T22:18:00.000-07:00

Dear Sweet Boyfriend;

Hi! Hope you're enjoying India. Don't you go worrying about me back here in ol' Alberta.

Things are going fine here. I've put a dent in my packing, but once all the boxes of books and knick-knacks are squared away, I have to deal with the big stuff. Don't you go feeling guilty or anything. Two wonderful man-friends offered to help me move, but I turned them down, because my brother and Dad will do the heavy lifting. You know if you want to get in the old guy's good books, you just might have to make a honest woman of me one of these days.

The NHL playoff season has kicked off. The talk at work of hockey pools is constant, loud and frenzied. Don't worry yourself about me and my sanity. No, I didn't kick in any cash to play the brackets this year.

I was chatting with the spokesman for the school district. She told me to pass along her compliments on that story you wrote about those crazed parents all up-in-arms over the state of mould in their school: she said you were amazingly fair. I didn't tell her I surmised that you wrote the piece in such a balanced way because you have such disdain for reactionaries.

Video store trips are so much more straight-forward. I'd like you to know I intend to rent that new dreary Mike Leigh film at the first opportunity.

You should know that I finished the first month of my Triphasil 21. You know what that means: no more worries about latex products or natural disasters. Baby, it's ALL SYSTEMS GO.

Don't feel bad about it, but I'm left to eat the pretzels in the Doritos/Cheetos/Sun Chips/Rold Gold mix. Rold Gold my ass. That stuff is for suckahs, I mean Cam.

Love you baby. All is well; I'll see you in three weeks.

TCB,

Tracy

2003-04-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

I'm back on the pill after a few years of naturally-induced crying jags, and, like Meredith, I've noticed something about the tits. She found they were huge, I've found they're fucking heavy.

I swear. It's like a tenner apiece.

2003-04-09T23:08:00.000-07:00

Next, on The Practice

Whoever told Andie MacDowell she could act?

Once I find him, I intend to walk up to him and just sort of poke him in the neck.

2003-04-07T17:39:00.000-07:00

Call me little more than a gangster's moll, just without the big hair and the double knits.

I remember when I was about 18, my boyfriend at the time and his pal used to steal books. They'd go into the better bookstores and pick off the hard-backed, pricey art titles, slipping them into their baggy pants when the salesgirl wasn't looking. I was inadvertently along on some of these trips, but I wouldn't know that crime had gone down until I got back to the car. I should have known, as it was all par for the course. They were smart and reasonably educated art-lovers and petty philosophers, but we also spent a good deal of time outside Arizona Pizza waiting to score dope.

I remember once being conned into selling some of their books in order to get cash for booze or dope. I was uneasy about it, never having done anything like that before, but I agreed, so I took a stack of hard backs and left their car, glancing over my shoulder with an uneasy grin as they gave me the thumbs-up.

See, my boyfriend and his pal had been to the Wee Book Inn one too many times, and they weren't sure if the guy buying used books that day had seen them before or would likely become suspicious. So I was recruited. I slid up to the counter, plopped the five or six books down, and wiped my sweaty palms on my thrift store skirt.

Now, I don't know if I was actually workin' it, but the feminine wiles came out. The counter-boy sized me up, and took a look at the books and complimented me on my good taste and yadda yadda. He was showing too much of an interest, asking about the different artists and such, and I grew uncomfortable with the scam. My boyfriend came in around that time and sat just down from the counter. I guess he figured the clerk wasn't a regular, so he could risk it, plus he wanted to see me in action.

It was about the fifth question in, when the clerk asked me what I knew about Cezanne or whoever, when I turned to my boyfriend, and asked "Eiki, why did Cezanne keep painting that mountain?" And the spell apparently was broken between wily ol' me and the clerk, and he got all huffy and said, "If these aren't your books, why are you selling them?"

I left the store, and left Eiki to finish his transaction and clean up the mess.

He was miffed at me when I got back to the car. But you know, about a year later he cheated on me, so I figure it was a case of pre-emptive retribution.

2003-04-07T01:50:00.000-07:00

A War Without Death

Anderson Cooper: "I'm going to interrupt you for a minute. We've got some breaking pictures from Abu Dhabi of some activity in Basra..."

[two paramedics load a body onto an emergency vehicle. Body, including face, draped in grey blanket]

Anderson Cooper: "We see two Red Crescent workers here loading someone onto their ambulance. Someone injured, or...."

[second image of another pair literally rolling a body from a ditch onto a stretcher]

Anderson Cooper: "Well, that is obviously a casualty. We'll break away from that."

Thanks for giving us the whole picture, CNN.

2003-04-07T01:07:00.000-07:00

At Least it's Not Crack

Some, after a weekend, would mention, in a very legitimate, rock-star manner, how much they've imbibed. I will detail, because I am lame, and am saving my rockandrollallnight heavy drinkin' allnighters for the end of the month, what I ate this weekend.

A comprehensive list:
1. pie with ice cream
2. pepperoni pizza
3. macaroni n cheese
4. free sample of Frito-Lay twizel-whatevahs
5. cheddar pretzels
6. bacon n cheese sandwich
7. homemade potato patties
8. peanut butter toast
9. crackers, butter and cheese
10. soda, as the Yanks say
11. just a couple beer
12. a piece of KFC
13. Vector cereal
14. more macaroni n cheese, this time with bacon
15. Sour cream and chili Miss Vickie chips
16. No leafy vegetables or whole-grains whatsoever
17. No vegetables, period
It's surprising disease has not instantly gripped my heart. Pray for me.
Have I mentioned the BF is out of the country?

2003-04-05T00:25:00.000-08:00

Rainbows

I pretty much feel an obligation to link to this because it is so crazy funny.

Caitlin happens to love short man syndrome in uniform.

2003-04-02T22:46:00.000-08:00

Ah...Diplomacy

Taiwanese President Chen Shui-bian isn't afraid to point fingers.

"The Chinese authorities have hidden the epidemic for months without taking care of the problem. Now the virus has spread all over the world. This is unhealthy, immoral and in violation of universal human rights.
The entire world should blame China."

What, does this guy think he's an island or something? Ha.

2003-04-02T16:15:00.000-08:00

Calling for a moratorium on:

The further use of a certain catchy war strategy phrase. It has now reached that most sacred of venues: USA Today...

And it's true — the celebrity gossip world was in shock and awe Tuesday at Us' news that the glamorous and very hot Alias and Daredevil actress and her A.U.S.A. actor husband have broken up. Speculation is that her stardom got too big for him to handle.

This is Jennifer Garner and Scott Foley, people. Sombre reflection please, sombre reflection.

2003-04-02T13:16:00.000-08:00

Join the Boycott!

Despite those pesky rumours of falsehoods contained in his latest movie, Bowling for Columbine, people still love Michael Moore.

Fans say, "Well, all the facts may not be dead-on, but the movie raised a lot of important issues."
I finally got around to seeing Bowling when it hit the cheap theatres here a few weeks back. I honestly enjoyed it, finding it clever and amusing. But throughout, I also squirmed in my seat, thinking at intervals, "What's the conclusion to this theory?" "What's his point?" "That's a completely specious argument!" "Where the hell did he get that?" He never drew a supportable conclusion, and when he did try to make a point, it was entirely dubious.

Many of us have become aware that some of Moore's facts are not quite on the up-and-up, but too many of us are willing to overlook them. I'm not willing to do that anymore, now that I know the lengths he went to to deliberately mislead his audience. People, we're not just talking about fudging numbers here.

Read this site.

Moore is a total con-man and I reject any "documentary" he may make in the future unless he comes clean about his tactics of manipulation in Bowling.

The sad thing is many of Moore's groupies will utterly discount criticism levelled at the filmmaker because they question the critic's angle. The zombies think if you're against Moore you're for mandatory gun ownership, inhumane working conditions, violence in schools, the slaying of little kittens.

I'm suggesting if you're against Moore's work, you're simply not a fan of deception and deliberate manipulation.

Moore went to great lengths to fabricate what he hoped would come off as "truth." Something the BIG BAD CORPORATE MEDIA doesn't even have time for.

(links via Colby and this site.)

2003-04-01T23:04:00.000-08:00

SARS and the Media: A Personal Look

So, Cam left for Singapore tonight. He's there for 30+ hours, put up by Singapore Airlines for an overnight layover before heading off to India. I'll be meeting up with him in a month's time in Delhi.

But let me back up:

Yesterday, I walked into the newsroom (my workplace) and I said to Gary, "I am totally going to track down one of those masks today. Cam is so laissez-faire about SARS, but I'm not, so I'm going to get him one. Besides, they're fashionable on the streets of Singapore."
Gary tells me I should call up his wife, Maggie, because she works at a safety supply store, and she can get me the N-95 masks.

So I call her up and plan to head over later in the day. An hour or two later, Maggie calls me back saying the local TV reporter wants to give me a ring.

The TV station and our radio station share a building so the reporter just came across the way, but I did an interview about how I was buying masks as a "going away present." Except for the initial, "Oh my god, I look horrendous," it turned out pretty well. Nothing like writing the news and being the news.

So there you go: I'm a radio and TV whore. Plus, I happen to be sleeping with Cam, who happens to be a newspaper man.
Fingers in a lot of pies.

BTW, Cam had to drive down to Calgary to the airport this morning.
The region had its first snowfall in weeks and driving conditions were treacherous.

We are being severely tested.

2003-03-30T16:13:00.000-08:00

Look,

I'll post probably on Tuesday night, when I'm all sad and lonely and I want to talk to the blog peeps.

Right now, I have to give the BF some lovin' before he ships out on April 1st. I still have a little bit of time to convince him to pick up a specialized N-95 surgical mask to wear for his overnight layover in Singapore.

Love, T

2003-03-27T00:06:00.000-08:00

But I'll Bootleg for You

From aol search (HA & SNORT), here is probably my best ever referral:

Picture+of+big+bare+breast+I+can+look+at+even+though+I'm+13.

Sorry to disappoint, sonny. Just the 18-and-overs get to pass through those saloon doors 'round back.

2003-03-26T16:27:00.000-08:00

Love Truly is...

When he calls you a firebrand when really most men would just say you're a fucking pain in the ass.

2003-03-26T16:14:00.000-08:00

Will the real Tracy please speak up?

audblog audio post

2003-03-26T13:04:00.000-08:00

Making Fun of Homeless=Quality Comedy

I was watching this fiftyish lady out my window as she rummaged through the rubbish. She had a tool with her which looked suspiciously like a rake to pick things up and out of the trash so she wouldn't have to do a full-on dumpster dive. At first I thought, oh the poor lady. And then I watched her meticulously pick through neatly-tied grocery-store bags salvaging clothes or frying pans, and then I think I saw her look through mine but there was nothing she wanted. Slighted!

Then I felt a little peeved, not only because my stuff was not good enough for her, but I thought maybe she goes through old Visa bills and bank machine chits and maybe she's engaging in a high-level identity theft operation.
And then I thought, not to worry, I would never wear purple pants with a red bomber jacket.

2003-03-25T18:07:00.000-08:00

My dear province has no shortage of resilient people who keep taking a kick at the can of separatist movement.
I interviewed a man today attempting to launch Alberta's latest separation party. He's a good interview, but his efforts may need an extra oomph, namely, web presence.

I plugged in said politico and party name into Google, and no site came up with both those names. But I did find a nice long list of sites touting the same principles of liberty, separation, gun rights and a deep hatred for all things Eastern Canada.

This is the website I found.

So in order to give the marginal, right wing parties some unsolicited, but badly needed advice, here are my
TIPS FOR UPDATING YOUR CONSERVATIVE WEBSITE:

1. I hear CSS is HOT.
2. Pantone colours, people!
3. Animated gifs, while their flags flapping unfailingly in the "breeze" may instil some patriotic fervor, are NOT.
4. Knock it off with all the underlining.
5. Portraits of Ronald Regan are soooooooooooo two decades ago. Include pin-ups of Ann Coulter.
6. In forums, it's probably in your best interest to delete posts in which the sender refers to certain populations as "chinamen."
7. Expand merch to include microfibrous LIBERTY FLEECE.
8. Do not include comments feature.
9. More pictures of kicky little firearms small enough to fit into purse.
10. When you're bolding key messages, like Mr. Chretien, you dishonour every Candian, ensure proper spelling.
11. Sound effects can be great. Love the thunder claps with every page load. A storm is brewing, I get it! But you may want to mix it up a little. Try a creepy, squeaking door to build suspense, or a shrill scream to scare the pants off those bleeding heart liberals who may have wandered into the sight.
12. Include gunshot sound effects to really mean business.
13. Four words: Ayn Rand coffee mugs.

2003-03-24T10:38:00.000-08:00

Loss

Just how long did you expect the chocolate easter bunny to last anyway? For the love of god, it sat there all alone overnight.

2003-03-24T09:51:00.000-08:00

Kerry over at The Safeword has a crush on Adrien Brody. I totally know what she means. That tormented actor demeanor, and that kiss he planted on Halle Berry has put The Piano at the top of my must-see list.

Oh, that and Y Tu Mama Tambien, because I finally got a look at this Gael Garcia Bernal dude.

Um, someone might have given me a heads-up on that one, ladies.

2003-03-24T08:17:00.000-08:00

The Contents of My Fridge or The Strange, Single Girl

Kalamata olives
Skim Milk
vast array of Stirfry sauces
Chocolate Bunny
Live Typhoid Vaccine

2003-03-23T15:40:00.000-08:00

The Oscars You Know Will Win, Even Though You'll Be All Smarmy and Will Likely Throw Things at TV

Best Movie: Chicago (because of the campaign, the momentum)
Best Actress: Nicole Kidman, The Hours (because of the shnauz)
Best Actor: Daniel Day-Lewis, Gangs of New York (because he is an ACTOR)
Best Supporting Actress: Julianne Moore, The Hours (because she doesn't sleep)
Best Supporting Actor: Chris Cooper, Adaptation (toothlessness=disability; disability a shoo-in for Oscar)
Best Director: Martin Scorcese (payback for Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas...the academy finally saw them now that they're out on DVD)

I have two bucks riding on this, with a potential payoff of seventy dollars in the office pool.
That, along with two other lotteries I'm currently involved in, means I've most certainly got some cash coming my way.

2003-03-23T15:19:00.000-08:00

I'm not going to talk about war. I know both you and I are getting enough of it elsewhere.

I will talk about wine: I like it very much so, thanks. But I'd ask you, if you're going to pour me some, DO NOT expect me to hold the glass properly by its stem if you own glassware with bowls as big as my head, and you don't expect me to drop red wine all over your light-colored carpet. Look, if you had dark-colored carpet, maybe I'd take the risk and hold the glass in a more wine ed-u-meh-cated manner. And seeing as the glasses are as big as brandy snifters, there's no excuse for not filling up said glass to the brim. I don't care if it's got to breathe, I'd rather have it gasping for air so long as I had a full-up glass and didn't have to get off my ass for a refill. Call me the anti-oenophile. Just don't ask me to pronounce it.

Actually, I was kept in lots of free red wine last night at a birthday party for a 60-year old. Who knew I'd have so much fun? What's better than eating good food, having a constant glass of good wine in one hand, a wonderful man on the other arm, and meeting people with whom I could talk about some pretty important stuff? Somehow the war and the wine really got the conversations going.

***

I haven't been very good about keeping this site up to date lately. It's just fallen off the radar screen, as I've been spending time with my boyfriend, or planning for the trip. Or working out. I guess all of this practical stuff has kept me away from the computer. And the sun has started to shine, and the snow is melting... And I know in a short while I'll have to put up a message to you that I won't be updating too much, as I'll be heading overseas and cyber cafes won't be as high on the list as taking photos of rickshaw-wallahs, or riding a scooter in Vietnam, or dodging the touts and their scams to get me to part with my measly funds.

I told work I was leaving and surprisingly my boss took it well. He had all kinds of kind words to say to me about talent and ability and said he hadn't expected for me to stick around in this town long anyway. I think the stress of revealing my long-held secret of leaving my job has lifted some mental gravity. All is good. That, and the fact I've decided to ignore any travel advisories Health Canada decides to issue about this mysterious respiratory illness.

Hell, I have a sore throat right now. Could be the cigarettes.

2003-03-18T15:49:00.000-08:00

Should I come clean yet?

I feel I'm leading this life of subterfuge. I can't leave my daytimer just laying around, I had to take my moving boxes out of my car lest someone at work see them, and now I had to promise to call someone at home when they reached me at work so colleagues wouldn't overhear.
I'm leaving work in a month and a half, but I was planning to give work a month's notice. That plan looks as though it'll have to change.
My boyfriend is heading overseas a month before me, and he works at the daily paper. I'll be joining him in May, we'll spend 3 months together then come back and move to another city. We're picking up the stakes in this town and never coming back. Well today, a colleague at another media outlet calls me asking about my boyfriend taking off and what's up with that? So obviously, word is out there and I just don't have the heart to come up with some elaborate story before I give my notice and can then come clean.

I guess there's no difference between giving notice now and giving it in a couple of weeks; I had just wanted to minimize that time where people will ask the endless questions and think me some kind of traitor. I also don't want to jeopardize my job as this last month is crucial to my savings.

Hell, my workmates probably know already, for all I know. I remember how I was trying to meet up with a cop to get him to sign my passport application. He relayed a message to a girl I work with saying he couldn't make our appointment. She must have wondered what the hell I was doing with this cop outside of work. I think I was prepared to let her raise her eyebrows rather than have my cover blown.

2003-03-18T14:46:00.000-08:00

i have no fucking idea why my links cannot be updated i'm so sick and tired of blogger

2003-03-17T21:50:00.000-08:00

I've been carrying around this list in my back jeans pocket.

I'm keeping track of the things that can get me when I take off on my trip of India, Malaysia, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos:

1. Mystery Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome
2. War
3. Terrorism
4. Japanese B Encephalitis
5. Muslim Extremists
6. Lariam-induced Rage
7. Dengue Fever

I won't go into how I once simply worried about finances or being bitten by a rabies-infected monkey or being homeless when I get back, but I now long for those carefree, heady days.

2003-03-12T17:50:00.000-08:00

i'm hungry but I've eaten a free big mac with a diet coke, so no more for me. i should go to the gym but I'm tired, I should also go to a meeting that might have protestors but jeez, I've already put in a full day and I'm tired didn't I say already and I worked last Friday night and went in on Sunday and Monday night and man, can't I just have some down-time. And there isn't much to do in the way of down-time but I think Gilmore Girls is on and I almost wrote Golden Girls hee, and today was a bit hard because I had to go to a press conference knowing that what I reported on the guy was wrong because A SOURCE FUCKED ME OVER and it didn't turn out too bad because it's only politics and sometimes speculation just works out that way. You gamble, you take the risk of getting cleaned out. But yesterday I was so pissed about it I couldn't sleep knowing my competitor would gloat and I'd have to tell him at least I took the chance while he didn't get off his ass and even try to get the story.
and to cheer me up, Cam spared me getting out the snow-brush and braving the ice, and came to my apartment even while he was working and brought me a huge chocolate bar because he is so sweet and I love the sweet stuff.

Look, I was going to just say I didn't feel like posting anything. It was just more that I didn't feel like being disciplined.

2003-03-11T08:17:00.000-08:00

I just brushed off a foot of snow on my car to get my ass to the gym. I deserve a medal.

And for breakfast I ate the world's most perfect, sweet and seedless grapefruit. The day is looking good.

Now if I can just get my template to update, all is well. Just as I get Haloscan under control, Blogger decides to stage a coup.

2003-03-10T10:54:00.000-08:00

Self-Righteousness Expires

Yesterday, on a Sunday, when all you really should be doing is eating bacon sandwiches and swearing to never drink again, I went to the gym, and I bowled for Big Brothers and Sisters. I did it for the kids. I also got the scoop on a good story and went in on my day off.

Today I went to my doctor's for THE ANNUAL. And this is what I faced:
1. I went to two different clinics first before I found the right one.
2. One of those fucking scales that tried to suggest to me I haven't lost 15 pounds, it's more like ten, sucker.
3. A doctor who said "So how did that face cream work? Well, you could have laser surgery to blast those broken blood vessels, but it's not cheap."
4. A waiting room full of coughing people and hyper children, sound-making toys.
5. A doctor who asked me "How old are you now?" and shortly after I said 31, asked "Bladder control good?"

2003-03-10T07:38:00.001-08:00

People, I've broken my coffee pot.

Let panic ensue.

2003-03-10T07:38:00.000-08:00

I just found a great tidbit of info that will help me decide what to pack for my Asia trip: when you're let off on the side of a road for a bathroom break on a long-haul bus trip, a long skirt provides a little privacy while peeing.

Great. I've got the wide-brimmed hat and the long, flowing skirt. It's all Stevie Nicks, baby.

2003-03-08T13:00:00.000-08:00

A family takes to the stage as the "entertainment" at a political fundraiser and warbles out a tune. Sarcastic reporters are nearby.

Him: Are those clothes handmade?
Me: I think so. Is the young one a boy or girl?
Him: dunno
Him: I think they're members of a cult.
Me: Yeah, the cult of fat, crappy singers.

2003-03-08T12:58:00.000-08:00

How the conversation should have gone:

Me: I'd like a medium pepperoni, please.
Them: That will be $11.27. It'll be there in--
Me: Wait! Don't you have that $4.99 pizza anymore?
Them: uh, no.
Me: But I got this flyer just like two days ago. Customer appreciation days?
Them: no, sorry ma'am.
Me: So you don't actually appreciate your customers anymore?
Them: Correct.
Me: Right-o. Do you take Visa?

2003-03-07T14:30:00.000-08:00

I've become one of those women.

There have been three episodes in as many days of me throwing a little hissy-fit in the face of inconvenience.

1. I go to Tim Horton's. For my American friends think Dunkin' Donuts. You go there to get a doughnut and a coffee. So imagine my surprise when after waiting in line for about 5-10 minutes, I was told they were out of coffee. "I just put on a pot, so you'll have to wait a couple of minutes, but it'll be fresh," says the clerk. This had just added insult to injury after I tried to beat the drive-through line by going inside and my gamble didn't pay off. The BF, knowing me so well, just drove me to another outlet down the street because I had to take my business elsewhere, on principle. Of course all of that took longer than just staying and waiting for the damned java at the first place.

2. At a fish and chips place, I ordered a 2-piece halibut and fries. I had seen a price of $7.50, but just a couple of minutes after I ordered, I read farther down the menu and realized the halibut would cost me an extra $3 dollars. I asked if I could change my order and they wouldn't let me, saying "oh, the fish is already in the deepfryer."
Look, I know I made a mistake, but certainly couldn't they sell that fish to someone else? I paid for the stuff but not before passing on my complaint to one of the staffers. I should have run out of the store when I had the chance.

3. At Safeway, I pick up a carton of milk and a couple of bananas. I don't shop at Safeway, I just pick up a couple of stray items once in awhile. I stood at the front of the store for all of 3 minutes when I realized they were not going to open an Express check out, nor were they going to deal with these huge lineups. I put down my perishables on a CD display and took off in a huff.

If I were still working in the record store, I'd be one of those people I'd have hated.

2003-03-07T13:26:00.000-08:00

It's less than two months now that I'm heading to India, and one of the priorities on my to-do list is Ride an Elephant.

So I got really excited last night lying in bed thinking about that elephant: how wrinkly he'll be, and think of that big watery, wise eye, and how big it will be and how lumbering. And don't even get me started on that trunk! Ba-whwoahlllllleellllee!

And I thought about the only thing cuter than a big grey elephant is imagining a sweet elephant with a monkey riding it!
Oh I giggled myself silly until I wept.

And I haven't even started on my anti-malarial meds yet.

2003-03-05T19:04:00.000-08:00

The Lobby Group is in the Works

I drive up to the big box, it's cold, I'm looking for a spot somewhere in the vicinity of the store, pull into one stall--HANDICAPPED. Try another spot that looks empty--RESERVED FOR PARENTS WITH TOTS. And next to that--Reserved for Expectant Mothers.
Surely the amount of stalls are disproportionate to those populations. I AM A CONSUMER, DAMMIT, and I'm lazy and freezing.
Who is looking out for my interests?

2003-03-05T18:18:00.000-08:00

I hate that cheese is bad for me; I'm tired of the freaking snow; I don't appreciate when I go to plug in the car and it's encased in ice; I don't go to Safeway for the prices, Mister, so open the damned express check-out already; what the FUCK is up with Blogger; lay off the perfume while you're working out, okay, even though I know my shirt smells a little onion-y, sorry; my apartment shouldn't smell like smoke when I'm currently "enjoying" non-smoking status; jesus, why is there no wine in the house; doesn't March herald spring?

2003-03-04T22:39:00.000-08:00

I just bought a huge sunhat on the same day Cam made a snowman on the hood of his car.

The hat makes me look more Catherine Hepburn than Audrey, but I can add ponytails, so not all is lost. It's rather cool, and so was the 'man.

2003-03-04T07:43:00.000-08:00

We saw Far from Heaven on the weekend. It was a rare treat: a good movie, in a theatre with no distractions. The previews got underway and something went very wrong with the picture: it developed this big black bar, so I ran out to tell the pimply-faced professional projectionist staff (read: concession clerks). I leaned over the railing and shouted downstairs, "Is someone going to do something to fix the projector?" And instead of being shaken to instant action, one of them yelled back to me, "What's wrong with it?" Well, jeez, buddy, if I knew, I'd have fixed it already.

Anyhoo, they did fix it, but not before I entirely missed the preview for the latest John Cusak movie. I should have demanded my cash back right there and then.

So the movie starts and I'm drawn into this highly color-saturated, controlled world of 50s-era facades. And when I get to the emotional climax of the film, all goes dark. You can still hear the audio, but not a frame is to be seen. Well, the audience is looking around and some are tittering and I am just speechless, I was really into this, and now, like a water-birth baby first wrenched from the womb, I'm now yanked, kicking and screaming, into an Alberta winter.

Someone else summoned the professional projectionist staff this time, and the teenager walked into the theatre, cleared his throat, and told us, "Well, the projector bulb has burned out. And it takes a long time to replace........So we'll be offering you free passes on your way out. Sorry."

And many guffaw, and some boo, and I am still speechless, which doesn't change when someone from the audience asks the teen, "How does it end?"

Like I want this guy to sum up the movie, like I'm going to leave it in his hands to give me the synopsis and analysis.

"er, I actually haven't seen it."

A collective moan goes up and we all file out.

All that movie foreplay and no climax should make a crowd ornery. You know if it had been Old School or something, and the audience was cut short before it got to see the final scenes of toga-ing, goat-riding and kegging hijinx, there would've been mass riots.

2003-03-03T20:35:00.000-08:00

We had just played once before as a band

The four of us, with me on rhythm guitar. Then, it was completely ad-hoc: it was amateur nite, we liked the idea of playing a few songs we liked and there was a prize: beer. So we had practiced once before and we'd done that first show. So tonight it was just a matter of shit, let's do this again.

But when I brought it up to him, Scott showed some reservations; he wasn't full-on yeah let's fucking rock n roll!
I could tell from the look on his face that his friends had seen us last time and said what was up with that chick on guitar?

Don't you know when you sing in a choir, your voice sounds beautiful? You're standing there on the altar and la-la-la'ing with others in their Sunday finest and Jesus is in a forgivin mood because you sound damn fine. Well I thought the same happened in a band--and well, it sort of does, but only to yourself, and only when you don't have monitors.

So when I saw Scott's face, the kind that leaks into your skin when you struggle with being the nice guy and the one who feels obligated to point out what could hurt but for your own good, I said to him, "I'm pretty good at tambourine, you know."

And his eyes brightened and he said really. This look of relief flooded his face and he said yeah, you could hang out and play the tamborine and harmonize.

So I tried not to let the hang out comment get to me. I let it slide off me that I wasn't really an integral part of this band, like I was anyone but Gwen Stefani in No Doubt. I thought I was kind of the cool hard-rocking party chick character who the audience would shift its gaze to when the lead singer wasn't up to his old antics.

But I just said sure.

So I pulled on my brown cords and I chose my red t-shirt with the radioative decal on it, and tested the tamborine against my leg.

I took to the stage.

I remember later that night running into my best friend from grade nine and maybe the boy I married at recess in grade six.
But that's the way dreams usually go.

I wonder if we rocked out.

2003-02-27T20:21:00.000-08:00

How good are you with your left?

Nerdy Girl has issued the challenge: write a haiku using just your left hand on the keyboard.
Here's mine:

axe wars are tax grab
a tease exerts wear a tear
rats fear tasers ass

They tend not to make sense.

2003-02-26T22:26:00.000-08:00

Baretta's openly weeping!

Oh, television, why did I ever abandon you?

2003-02-26T22:20:00.000-08:00

I finally got around to seeing Chicago.
And as much as I love Sound of Music, I'm not fond of the musical. I went with no expectations and it turns out I loved it.
My boyfriend happens to be very cool because he said Renee Zellweger is unhealthy-looking. He scores points once again.
Sure, she's pretty sinewy in the shoulders and back, but I happen to think Zeta Jones looked like a porker next to her. I guess if I had to choose I'd rather Zellweger's body and Catherine's face. (the blonde's too squinty, but I don't need to point that out to you)
My lasting impression, aside from the compulsion to go out and get some fishnets, is the TITS ON QUEEN LATIFAH.

There is my professional review. Let's recap: fishnets, sinewy, TITS, porker. It's all about knowing your audience.

2003-02-26T21:58:00.000-08:00

If you want well-crafted, please go elsewhere
If you need technique, please go away
If you crave full-on glamour, I'm not even near there
If you need tales of scandal, you'll just have to pray

If you want pics of "it" girls, I don't play tag
If you want ribald yarns, I don't spin
Neither cookin' nor hookin' is really my bag
And I can no longer keep up on what's really in

Right now I'm bored and boring
and don't feel like being peppy
go take a look at roaming
she's got pics of Giuseppe

2003-02-26T14:08:00.000-08:00

Man, we need a change of season on the web.

Everyone is either:

Angry
Fed up with snow and natural disaster
Broken up
In the throes of mysterious love problems they won't let us in on. Please let us in on them. Don't we kind of own a piece of it?
Sick and freakin tired of Haloscan.

2003-02-24T14:47:00.000-08:00

I have no time to do this because I'm off to work in about 20 minutes and I'm still wearing the jeans with the holes but I'm in super-productive mode so I'll try.

This weekend I: watched Hope & Glory and The Rules of Attraction and fell in and out of sleep during Jean-Luc Goddard's Contempt, and I thought it was cool looking mostly because Brigitte Bardot is drop-dead gorgeous, and where does she get that skin-colored matte lipstick? and why do my eyes looking freaking crazy in liquid eyeliner? but otherwise I'm finding I have less and less tolerance for French pretention.

I also vacuumed, washed piles of dishes, had curry chicken cooked for me, was treated to a lovely Shiraz, ate two bowls of Breyer's chocolate ice cream and enjoyed rolling the whites of my eyes back into my sockets. I slept in very late, I actually read some news on the web, I went to the gym and fatigued my biceps, I ran for 30 straight minutes on the treadmill, I washed my hair with sweet orangey flavoured shampoo. Today, all before work mind you, I: got my second round of vaccinations, grocery-shopped, DID MY TAXES AND SENT THEM OFF, made a doctor's appointment, had my watch battery replaced.

And I still have room for more coffee.
Done!

2003-02-22T13:11:00.000-08:00

Yet another sign my industry has become completely irrelevant.

2003-02-22T12:41:00.000-08:00

I gave him sustenance for the day. I was too lazy to wash up any pots in order to cook him up some gruel to stick to his ribs, so I made him toast with blueberry jelly. And some grapefruit, which he balked at because I hadn't cut out the sections. He ate it, with sugar! But he was pleased, and I sent him off to battle.

I hope his minions kick ass.

Speaking of battle, I find it strange that the Americans have the time to combat some rogue Phillipines. Maybe it's a practice run for the big show?

2003-02-20T21:15:00.000-08:00

I watched One Hour Photo last night. After dealing with the Blockbuster clerk and her thinly-veiled contempt for customers, I was looking forward to a movie about a clerk on the edge who presumably gets his just desserts.
It was not scary, and more infuriating, there was no climax to speak of.
And I was more emotionally-invested in Connie Nielsen's haircut than in any of the characters. Borrrrrr-iinnnnggg.

2003-02-18T22:27:00.000-08:00

I think it's completely not fair that I passed up the Doritos tonight, Doritos that I was really craving, and the powers can't see it in their mercy to allow me to lose a pound. Surely I would have gained one if I had eaten them. My logic says one should come off.

Free me from my head. Well, and my ass.

2003-02-18T10:46:00.000-08:00

thanks to catherine's pita for the link

2003-02-17T20:28:00.000-08:00

It took two full days for me to find out about this.

Something tells me I need to gossip less in the hallways and pay more attention in class.

2003-02-17T19:02:00.000-08:00

Did you know that you likely have the ingredients in your home right now to make one of the most delectable dishes on earth?

I needed to quickly pop out to get a little canister of baking soda (because I don't bake or usually make anything requiring more than one really big pan), but otherwise it was all systems go.

Friend, you probably have the stuff to make cornbread this very instant. And I strongly urge you to do so.

2003-02-16T18:59:00.000-08:00

My nephew Josh is a consummate performer.

I was visiting my two nephews just a few hours ago (the baby is doing better, thanks), and baby Ben's older brother, 16 month-old Josh, was totally rocking out to the Dixie Chicks. He was in the middle of a circle of family, with every eye trained on him, as he'd seamlessly switch from the bob and weave dance move to the run back and forth classic to the twirl in endless circles mainstay. He even threw in a little Irish jig, and I expect he'll soon add a little street to his repertoire. But as he's doing all of this, he'll pause to yell "Dog!" then go pet Winston, then he'll intersperse the dancing with the hitting-the-hammer-quite-proficiently at pegs in his little wooden board. But his real tour de force is what he does when someone yells "Chucky! The Chucky is incredibly intense, as you can imagine, and is executed with the clenching of fists and bearing of teeth, the adorable gap between the two front ones exposed.

Now I'd like to see my four year old niece in the next province over. I'm wondering if she made some of her patented Valentine's Day cards this year. Apparently, ever since her mom explained how red hearts are symbols and not really anatomically correct, little Sophie insists on drawing her sweet pictures with aortas and ventricles and whatnot.

It would appear it's about time for me to get some cats and post their pictures online, now wouldn't it?

2003-02-13T21:18:00.000-08:00

It's perhaps our first journey into Reality Blogging.

Quality programming or shark-jumping?

2003-02-13T20:50:00.000-08:00

Who deserves a luxury weekend?

I'd say someone who:

1. Had her car stuck out back all week.
2. Is ferocious about driving.
3. Was visited by Mr. JS Exception Exploit, rendering her computer useless for 2 days.
4. Loves her computer.
5. Has a sick nephew still in the hospital.
6. Had her watch battery conk out.
7. Looks bad in her Photo Booth visa pics.
8. Lost her intern.
9. Likes reading comments, only to find Haloscan being a bitch, again.
10. Has to work at 5am on Valentine's Day.

But not to worry; I am taking that weekend. We'll be spending Friday and Saturday nights at the Varscona, where we'll wrap ourselves in complimentary fluffy robes, enjoy the free newspaper at the door in the morning, partake of wine and cheese tasting at night and continental breakfast by day, and swoon over the toiletries.

We've chosen this room. While it is themed "country character," rest assured there will be no rooster ornaments or bales of hay anywhere or someone would honestly have to pay in teeth.

I'll be spending the weekend with my wonderful boyfriend, Cam, and I hope, Monsieur Bernard Callebaut.

2003-02-11T13:40:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: THE FUCKING GARBAGE TRUCK IS STUCK IN MY PARKING LOT!

2003-02-11T13:19:00.000-08:00

I Need Some Muscle

We've had about 2011 centimetres of snow fall in the last three days. For my imperialistic-minded friends state-side, don't try to figure out the conversion, just trust me.

I need help; my car is stuck in a huge mound of snow in my parking stall, and I can't get it out. It's been sitting there since yesterday, front tires jammed into a snowbank, the white stuff seeping into its every orifice. Yesterday, I got my car stuck twice: once in the middle of a residential street, next where it lays now.

And I'm losing strength.

My cupboards are nearly bare, and I don't have my wheels to zip out to the grocery store. Now, I would go out and pick up that kale on my list and make a proper and nutritious stirfry, but I am helpless. I have resorted to eating a can of peaches and the butts of frozen bread loaves, slathered in peanut butter. It's starting to feel like I'm trying to outsmart nuclear fallout by hiding out in a bunker.

I also want to go to the gym, but I'd be forced to walk there. Fuck that, the exercise only goes down in a climate-controlled gym, on a treadmill at 6.0, with Missy Elliott in the headphones. I'm going to have to order pizza to keep going on.

2003-02-10T09:05:00.000-08:00

There have been two times in the last 48 hours that I've been assaulted by the image of a woman's nipple dipped in liquid.

The nipple-dips in question were spotted: 1) In a sporadically-viewed Rising Sun on TV. 2) On the Internet (yes, the Internet) in the form of a video for Bob Log. Mr. Log unquestionably wins out in the breast-soaking contest, as the areola used in his art is dipped in scotch. The former just gets a bath in Japanese tea, presumably to boost the transfer of healthful anti-oxidants.

The tumbleweed gal firmly endorses chesticular ablutions only when a single malt is involved.

We'll be seeing Mr. Log in Edmonton on Feb 15th.
My nipples are thirsty.

2003-02-06T21:48:00.000-08:00

Video Killed the Radio Star

The phone rang around 8 PM. It was the radio station: "Tracy there's cops everywhere by the McKenzie overpass. I'm getting calls."

It was a bad episode of Friends anyway, and they'd already wrapped the Betrayal of Michael Jackson By That Brit Who Lived With the King of Pop and Uncannily Thinks He's a Wack Job, and well, there's that damn sense of duty, so I took off to chase down the scoop.

Ten minutes later, pulled off by the side of the highway, fleece-clad and cellphone in hand, I walked through the ground flares forming the police barricade, ready to get the info. Turns out it was just a bomb scare that was looking like a hoax. Damn.

In a way, it's good to see some of the classics are still at work. At least it wasn't anthrax. That is sooooo November 2001.

Not all was lost, I was able to write up a story with evacuation in it. It's good and strong. That makes everything worthwhile.

POLICE EVACUATED EMPLOYEES AND PATRONS OF AN AREA BUSINESS AFTER A BOMB THREAT.

Unfortunately I have to bury the fact that it was at a business that tends to take the sting out of what could be a not-bad story:

POLICE EVACUATED EMPLOYEES AND PATRONS OF THE DONUT MILL. COLD COFFEES AND CRUELLER CRUMBS LEFT BEHIND.

Once, just once, I'd like to catch something a little more on the sensational side. Like this:

.
(courtesy the always sensationalistic Colby Cosh.)

TRANSCRIPT:

VOICEOVER: A TASER GUN TAKES DOWN A MENTAL PATIENT UTTERING DEATH THREATS. THAT IS TONIGHT'S TOP STORY.

COIFFED ANCHOR: THAT MAN IN THE CAR IS A MENTAL PATIENT. YOU'LL NOTICE THE MAN HAS A CELLPHONE. HE CALLED K-GUN-9 NEWS AND WE RECORDED WHAT HE SAID AS HE SURRENDERED:

MENTAL MAN ON CELL: ......BLIND!....TAY-GAH......GARRRRRURRRLLLLLRGGGGHHH! GRALLLLLRRGGH!

2003-02-04T17:37:00.000-08:00

I've posted a 100 Things on my bio page.

2003-02-04T14:55:00.000-08:00

little ben isn't breathing or swallowing well and my sister-in-law is wringing her hands at the hospital taking care of him. and my little brother who, i guess, isn't so little anymore is working his job, then heading over to see his young family, then working his second job and dragging himself back to the hospital.

and i think my newest little nephew is so sweet and i've barely seen him, even though he lives just less than two hours up the highway and now they tell me trouble breathing and swallowing, that's all a new born baby does, sleep and suckle, and what can i do?

why do little babies have trouble, no one deserves it, but tiny little-footed, teeny-fingered, smooth, dark-headed baby nephews least of all.

2003-02-02T18:10:00.000-08:00

Dear Diet Gods;

For the love of You and Pete, I am eating brown rice. No matter that it tastes like crap, and I have a perfectly good bag of white, sticky, coconut-flavoured stuff in my cupboard, I am preparing the brown. I know all about its whole-grain goodness and fibre and essential nutrients. Believe me, there is no other reason lending itself to my consuming it.
So I'd just like to know if you could provide me with a reason, if you could unlock the mystery as to why it is you make it so IMPOSSIBLE TO COOK? Is it supposed to simmer for more than half an hour? Why are you making the crap LABOUR-INTENSIVE?

Is this my penance for months of Dairy Queen?

Thinking of going back to confession one of these days,

Yours,
Tumbleweed Gal

2003-02-02T18:04:00.000-08:00

International Woman of Contradiction

I slay me when checking out grocery items at the supermarket: milk, meat, strange asian shortcut stirfry sauce,
Shape Magazine, Cadbury's chocolate creme egg.
I'll have you know I positioned the egg just so: over her perfectly-rounded small ass.

2003-01-31T14:09:00.000-08:00

Laissez-Faire

They say if you give 'em an inch, they'll take a mile.

Well, I took a foot once.

It had an abnormally long second toe. And I could cup its sweet, cherry redness in the palm of my hand. I licked my sticky fingers after picking the lint off: I had stuck it in my pocket when the nutman turned his back. That was the start of my grade ten crime spree. The second and last incident happened in another mall. I wandered endlessly in the department store looking for a clerk, but no one ever showed. Their loss, I figured, haw, and put the cosmetic brush into my bag. I hoofed it out of there a juvie, firm in the knowledge that supply and demand doesn't always require customer service.

2003-01-29T18:28:00.000-08:00

Michelina's Pastas
Mediocrity Street
Don Mills, ON M4Y 2M9

January 29, 2003

Dear Sir/Madam;

I understand, by watching your ads, and employing some amount of restraint and tolerance, Michelina's Pastas must be shooting for something "new" and "fresh" with your campaign. Unfortunately, I'd have to add "ineffectual" or even "really fucking annoying" to that.

One of the ads I've seen use a guy and girl on some sort of date, and he's talking "Italian" to her and she's lapping it up. Now, normally that might work in a cute way. But instead of just having our hunk whisper mangia or capuccino in her ear, you insist on him reciting words to the cadence of the Macarena. Now that I think of it, maybe he's not talking Italian. I'm not really clear on the other features of the commercial because I usually turn it off. Same goes for your latest ad with the football players. I started watching it with the hopes this would be a new ad campaign for you. But no, they start doing something to the tune of the Macarena.

COULD YOU PLEASE STOP THAT NOW?

YOU STOP AND I WILL STOP BLOODY SCREAMING AND POKING MY EYES OUT WITH SHARP OBJECTS.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

I do enjoy your Spaghetti Bolognese.

Regards,

Tumbleweed Gal

2003-01-28T02:15:00.000-08:00

I am drinking a surprisingly refreshing glass of wine. I guess I'd say that because it is both thirst-quenching and novel. Folks, I am drinking homemade wine of a blueberry origin. I already downed the plum wine in the same Christmas basket of homemade jams, salsas and wines given to me by my sister and her husband. While surprisingly good, I can't help but ask, WHAT IN THE CHRIST DO YOU HAVE AGAINST THE GRAPE, SISTER?

2003-01-28T02:09:00.000-08:00

OHMYGOD! I am listed as NUMBER TWO in a Google search for "Aragorn versus Legolas"! That's impossible. I mean, I even mistakenly referred to Helm's Deep as Well's Deep just the other day. (Insert nerd-snorting here.) And, I'll confess I saw the movie for the second time very recently. I am not worthy. The saddest part of this burden I bear is imagining all those folks who come here looking for insight and getting instead some chick's ramblings about lawyers and facial hair and travelling. And not even for consolation do I look anything like Arwen.

Sorry, dudes. Live long and prosper. (see. NOT WORTHY)

2003-01-27T17:43:00.000-08:00

You got polio? Bring it on.
You got Hep-B? I don't mind. Mishandle my food, I don't care.
Sweet Jesus, I ahm immmuuuniiiized!

2003-01-26T21:36:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to set up a photo gallery for-evah but I just haven't gotten around to it. I have use of a scanner once again, and I don't much feel like writing, so I'm posting some pics.

These are from the summer of 2002:
1) a city-organized rally to welcome home troops who served in Afghanistan;
2) a couple of shots from the Edmonton Folk Fest.
Yeah, peace and love, baby. Dig and all that.

2003-01-24T17:05:00.000-08:00

The Different Faces of Justice
Now, I've seen the flamboyant District Attorneys, and I've seen the disheveled public defenders. I watch your TV programs, America. Here in my native Canada, it's the other way 'round. Cause see, you never catch the prosecutors (government-paid) acting real hot-shot. And the defense lawyers (except for the ones appointed as legal aid) are the ones pulling in the dough. And that's why I came to the conclusion I did today:

I was walking by the courthouse and caught some dude with a big, swaggering moustache making his way to the front doors, and I thought, man, that guy has to be defense counsel. The only crown prosecutors I know are clean-shaven or full-bearded.
And I thought, you know, that's a good-lookin' stache. I could really see him getting his client acquitted, then chowing down on a big plate of ribs.

(Billy, where do you stand on the facial hair issue?)