An evening ritual

Standing behind the bar at the hotel, filling up drinks or drying glasses, gives me a clear view of the seated guests. The smoking area are the tables and chairs nearest to the bar and kitchen, and the non-smoking area is done in a terrasse-style, full of windows and colourful seats behind the smoking area. So, basically, you can see most of the guests, except for the ones who have reserved eons ago to sit in the large-group/party area, situated cosily away from everything.

Many of the guests here are elderly: usually retired with a good chunk of money. I've noticed a pattern with many of the elderly couples who come in and eat. Both of them will enter the door at the right of the bar, the woman always in the lead, the man always trailing behind. She will smile and say to me "Good evening", "Hello", "Good morning" or whatever it may be, and he will grunt a semi-understandable greeting.

The couple will find a table, with the woman fussing, and then they will sit down. The woman will try in vain to engage her husband (presumably) into conversation. He will maybe grunt a little. After about five minutes of this mainly one-sided conversation, they will sit in silence. He will stare out of the window at the beautiful Alps, and she will look around the restaurant for someone else to talk to. Often, the woman who owns the hotel, Frau Kaufmann, will come and talk to her, or sometimes I even will. Of course, I always make sure that people know that I am Canadian or at least a non-German speaker when I talk to them, so at least I have an excuse for my terrible grammar and poor vocabulary.

After the couple has finished drinking and eating dessert, the man will definitely not talk (he usually orders a massive dessert, so he is probably half asleep), and the woman will be wide-awake, looking at him, looking at the empty plate, looking around the restaurant. But, at this point, she doesn't look as perky as she did when she first came in -- she looks more concerned, or looks as though she were thinking about doing something drastic. Finally, her and her husband will mutter something to each other, and then they will both get up (again, with her leading). The concerned look that she had a minute ago will now have completely vanished, and she will smile broadly and wish you a good night. The man will usually also smile and also wish you a good night (but in a gruntier tone). Then, they will leave.

And I assure you that this pattern has been repeated with quite a few other couples! The woman will always try to start conversation, she will always lead conversations with her hubsand, and her husband will always just tag along, in a grunting tone. Quite peculiar.

The other night, however, we had a bit of a different crowd -- a few young teens with their parents and a few younger couples. We also had two couples from Massachussetts! Every time I hear English or French (which is so very rare here), I get extremely excited, and I naturally engage myself in conversation with them.
Strangely enough, I get just as excited when I hear German back home!

The weather, oh the weather

I remember talking to Andrea a few weeks ago about having snow in May. I said I don't remember that ever happening in my lifetime, but she was pretty sure there had been some at some time. So, we talked to her mother, and her mother remembered distinctly a Mother's Day, sometime in the early nineties, in which we had a bit of snow. I decided to believe it.

Well. Now, I have been honoured enough to witness snow in June! Yes, here in Rosshaupten, Germany, we had snow. Yesterday, June 1st. I was so shocked when I peered out of the window and white specks of oh-yes-I-hate-you-so-much-because-you-are-here-in-freakin'-June. Now, I know this is very hard to believe, considering that the Ottawa area has been having thirty plus degree weather, but I assure you, I would never make up this atrocity. And the strangest part about it is that everyone here thinks that I am used to this kind of weather.
"Well yes, but not in June!" I answer emphatically.

Then they ask, "How hot is it in Canada now?"

I specify (because I think they often forget the size and the vast geography of Canada) by saying, "In my area, it is around thirty degrees right now."

And then they go on to say how much they wish that it was like that here and, of course, are shocked that it actually gets that warm in Canada. The best part about hot weather here is that there is no humidity. When it is 30 degrees, it is a lovely dry heat, and you always have the nearby lake and the breeze to cool you off. They tell me that the normal temperature for this time is mid to high twenties. I have a hard time believing this.

In other news, I thought you should all know that I am eating like a King here. The hotel is quite high-class, and the food is really fancy. And I get it all for free! Now, most people would take advantage of the fact that you can have free alcohol pretty much any time you want, but I have decided to go crazy on the tasty orange soft drink, Fanta, instead.

Today, we have a big weather improvement with a high of 10 degrees Celsius.

A Much Resented Nap

Reading Tex's post about imagining his bed was a space craft in his precious youth reminded me of my own days of childhood yore, in which I would imagine that our gym mats were special designed aircrafts.

Let me rewind back to grade 3 gym class. Some strange (new-age?) bozo had waltzed into our tiny school and sold the teachers on the idea of a "Relaxation" session for the kids. Apparently, it was supposed to calm the ever hyperactive children. The worst part about this stupid "Relaxation" session was that it replaced one of our gym classes that we had three times a week. We were all very disappointed and would inevitably groan when the teacher mentioned that dreaded "R" word.

So, we started doing the "Relaxation". I was even more disappointed to find out that we would lie for half an hour on hard gym mats and only allowed to have a mini towel under our neck (how I longed for a pillow!) and a normal beach towel covering us. Also, we were forbidden to lie on our sides; we had to lie on our backs, and we weren't even allowed resting our hands on our stomach! The whole ordeal was extremely uncomfortable, especially for an eight year old.

So, we all had to lie on our backs, two of us per mat. I remember always being beside a boy with cooties whom I didn't particularly like, which made the half hour all the more unwanted. As soon as we were all settled into our stupid towels on the hard mat, it was time for the "soothing" tape to begin. Now, this tape had nothing to do with the word "soothing" at all, and after hearing the same man with the dreamy voice say the same things every single week, well, I soon grew tired of it. I hated how I was being told to relax my left foot, and then the right, and then move on to relaxing my torso, and so on. I hated how I was being told to empty my brain and to think of nothing else but my breathing.

After doing the "Relaxation" for a couple of weeks, I developed an intense hatred towards everything to do with the dreaded half hour: the fact that I couldn't move positions, that I couldn't lie comfortably with a blanket and a pillow, and the fact that I had to hear this stupid guy rant on and on in this whispery voice that I had begun to hate. So, everytime he said to relax the left leg, for instance, I would start moving it, but just a little bit and not too crazily, so as not to bring about too much attention. Everytime the tape guy said to clear your mind, I would try to think of as many things as I possibly could. Man, I was bad. I felt I was really rebelling. Well, rebelling as much one could as an angelic little third grader.

I had all sorts of evil thoughts: one of them was replacing the "Relaxation" tape with a mixed tape of loud rock music. I imagined what my teacher's horrified expression would look like upon hearing the shake yer booty music. I even imagined choegraphing a dance with the entire class, in which we would stand up, chuck the mats to the side, and flee out of the gym door, obnoxiously yelling and screeching.

Another entertaining thought of mine was imagining what it would be like if our gym mats could fly. With just one push of a button or one turn of a lever, our gym mats would become fast flying crafts, in which we could just jet out of the gym, leaving behind a shocked and bewildered teacher. We would fly out of the gym doors, fly up into the sky, and have parties on our mats. Thinking of this always made me smile.

Good thing that this "Relaxation" craze soon enough died out. Maybe it was because kids were pretending to fall asleep, and then they wouldn't have to go to class until they woke up. I was angry at those kids, but at the same time, I envied them and thought about pulling the "sleep trick" myself one day. Needless to say, I never did.

The Ocean's Cool Side

Safely arrived in Germany!

However, that doesn't mean that my senses have caught up with my body; I think they are still floating around Amsterdam. I do hope that jet lag will be kind enough to give them back to me by tomorrow.

My last week back at home was exceptionally enjoyable, including a trip to the Green Door with my favourite ladies, a trip to Lennoxville with much moving and too much pizza, a delightful outing to Merrickville, which included a yummy restaurant and fudge and a neat museum, and a fun trip with Alex and Andrea to Canada's Wonderland and shortly afterwards, to Barry's funny new dwelling in Waterloo.

The Green Door was better than I thought it was going to be, and Merrickville was colder than I thought it would be, but Lennoxville was, unfortunately, just as rainy as expected. Speaking of fudge, I still have a piece of it with me. Lucky the lady behind the counter let us sample it, so I didn't accidentally end up buying a piece of that smores vomitrotious stuff. The chocolate fudge is simply divine, and we bought a pound and a half of it.

Wonderland was a lot of fun, and it was much warmer than last year's expedition. Also, because it was a Tuesday in May, there were hardly any line-ups and no screeching children! Next year, I am hoping that a bunch of us will be able to go to an amusement park because halfway through the day, Andrea and Alex wimped out, whilst I was still going strong (you can call me, "Stomach of Steel"). That's right, next year, whether she likes it or not, Alanna is coming with me!

We ended up seeing the Da Vinci code that night, which was surprisingly just how I thought it was going to be. I was anticipating great things from it, but then my brother warned me that it was not that great, so my expectations were considerably lowered. It really doesn't matter either way because I thought the movie was great, and unlike many avid readers who have read the book before, I wasn't expecting a magical way that they were going to incorporate their thoughts (only accessible from the novel) into the action. In movies, it is always less prominent, and I knew that going into it.

Thursday night, I left Montreal airport and was bound for Amsterdam. I switched flights there and got on a quick flight to Frankfurt. Despite a few train and bus confusions, I managed to find the hostel in Frankfurt, and after almost 12 hours of sleep (interrupted, however), I made it to Bonn with the group and am raring to go. I had forgotten how utterly quaint and pretty all the towns are here and how you come across a town every few kilometres you travel. The roads are impossibly small, and the shops are impossibly lovely. It is neat hearing German everywhere you go, and it is even more fun trying to answer questions when they are expecting that you are a fluent and extremely fast speaker as they are. Not always easy, but it is fun, and they are always understanding.

The German spoken here is a lot more hoity toity compared to the few Austrian speakers that I am accustomed to hearing. It is clear, albeit quite quick at times. I am looking foward to hearing the accent of those in Bavaria.

Much more to come! And much more sausages (Wurst) and pretzels (Bretzel) to be consumed!

Ça fait du bien!

Hot tubbing. Nothing can be better after a long, grueling day of treeplanting.

An Ode to the Trees

A few days after coming home from University, I started the grueling task of treeplanting.

It means waking up before seven o'clock, something I hadn't done regularly since last year's tree plant, putting on a thin, long-sleeved white shirt, work pants, a hat or bandana, and rubber boots. This apparel will be my clothing for the entire time planting.

It means hoping into a van with your lunch and bug spray and squishing in beside some other treeplanters. The car ride to our treeplanting site can be anything from ten minutes to ninety minutes. So, on the ride over, we wake each other up, we slather on sunscreen (I do more than others), and we make fun of Jeff (a major he-man) and his pink truck. His truck isn't actually pink, but we like to say it is, which in turn makes him defend himself profusely, stating that his truck is not pink and is "competition red". However, he has now come to accept that we refer to his truck as pink, and now he has even started referring to it as such. We laugh.

We get to the planting site, which is often large, sometimes buggy, and has a tendency to get very hot after lunch. Getting started is always slow. Our foreman, John, (sometimes Andrea) talks to the property owner (if he/she is there). John will flag the property, if necessary, as to make sure that our trees get planted in straight lines.

We soak the roots of our trees in a swamp or a creek or the ditch or really anywhere we can find. We usually fit about 100 in our pouches, fifty in in each pouch. You grab your shovel, your funky red sunglasses (in my case only), and you are off to the field.

Treeplanting means encountering ground as hard as rock -- there was the time we planted in a gravel pit -- which makes you almost snap your shovel in two and makes you almost want to scream and chuck the shovel in a nearby pit and go and pout in the van. And there was also the time where the ground was covered in boulders, the sun was unbearable, and the bugs were in love with me, and when John told me to grab another 100 trees, I almost broke into tears right then and there. I had just finished planting one hundred cedar in the scorching sun and my shovel was bouncing off every time I tried to shove it in the ground, and he was asking me to grab another one hundred? You've got to be kidding me. With the heat and the bugs buzzing around my head non-stop, all I wanted to do was shut myself in the van, recline the seat, and sleep. But no, I dragged myself to the bag of trees, gulped down half of my bottle of water, stuffed my pouches full of trees and reluctantly trudged back to the field. I have no idea how I kept going that day, but I did, and we actually didn't finish all that late.

Treeplanting means occasionally being a sloppy planter and then having John at your tail pulling out your trees because they weren't planted deep enough, for instance. It means trying to rectify your problem, keep on planting straight, don't let any roots stick out, and catch up with Andrea as to keep up the competition.

It means going through the swampiest and most remote areas, carrying heavy bags of trees near water, being swarmed by armies of mosquitos and black flies, and having your hands caked in mud, so when you scratch your mosquito bites on your face, your face just keeps getting dirtier.

A good treeplanting day for me means getting in 800 trees. A crappy day will be 600 trees, and an awesome day will be one thousand trees. My record to date is 1250 trees in one single day.

One hot day, when we had nice trees and easy terrain to plant in, the black flies were unfortunately relentless. I did notice the bugs throughout the day, but they weren't bothering me all that much until I stopped planting. At the end of the day, when we were driving home, Martina took one look at me and shrieked, exclaiming that half of my face had puffed up because of the black fly bites. No one else was quite this maimed, and was it ever unfair. If I have to have a puffy face, so should everyone else!

We plant anything from poplar to oak to spruce to pine to even ash. We also plant trees of various ages, so they can be anything from four inches tall to three feet tall (I kid you not). Last year, Steve took a picture of a tree and a shovel side by side each other, and they were both the same length. Of course, we don't encounter such large trees every day, but it's always interesting to talk about the most extreme.

But treeplanting also means coming home at the end of the day, having the most glorious shower or bath, pulling on some warm, comfy clothes, eating a hot supper, and then sitting around the rest of the evening. I realize that all of this sounds quite tame, but let me tell you, it is simply glorious after stomping around in mud and swamps all day. After treeplanting, food tastes so much better and sleep feels all the more restful. I always like simple pleasures, but treeplanting just makes those simple things even more enjoyable.

I suppose that is part of the reason why I treeplant; I enjoy the satisfaction at the end of the day. I also enjoy the comraderie amongst treeplanters and the inside jokes we have. Probably one of the best reasons is being able to be outside all day. If anyone wants to be at one with nature or anything of the like, I'd say treeplanting is one of the best ways to really get to know mother nature. It just feels good knowing that you are doing so simple, yet so fulfilling. You're planting trees. And trees are so beautiful and precious; people often develop significant attachments to trees and places with a specific tree.

I think that everyone should plant some trees. It's therapeutic, in a way, and it really gives you an idea of how good those little trees are and what they will become. It's difficult to explain, but treeplanting feels magical and yet so natural at the same time. Like Martina said, after treeplanting, you always remember the good times. Besides, everyone needs to get a little dirty.

Still Afloat

Terrible!

It has been nearly three weeks since I've posted. No, my blog hasn't become one of those that just fade out and eventually just die out; my blog is still up and kickin'. Well, at least in my mind it is still up and kickin' because there is so much that needs to be spewed out.

That being said, since the last time I posted, I have finished my second year of University, received excellent marks, gone home, and started treeplanting. I am currently in week two of treeplanting, and that is really the culprit that has been eating up all of my time and energy.

My last weekend at University was exceptionally enjoyable. I attended two parties with people from my German class, as well as with the German assistant Vera and her friends from Germany. The first party was at this couple's apartment (Lyna and Adam, whom I previously had a dream about), and the second party was at Vera's house. I met this odd, but interesting German motorcycle guy, who had a very humourous laugh. He pressured me into stealing a very good piece of German cake. I have no idea what his name is (or the cake's name for that matter), but I can find out through Vera, and I may look him and Vera up when I go to Germany.

So, as that statement may have given away, yes, I am going to Germany this summer. I was accepted into the work abroad program (WSP) through my University, and I am very excited about it. I will be spending two months working in a hotel in beautiful Rosshaupten (of course the website is in German), a small Southern village only fifteen kilometres away from the Austrian border!

After working in Rosshaupten for June and July, I will be travelling a little of Europe for about two weeks. I am trying to get together with past Canada World Youth group members, and we'll hopefully be able to travel through Poland and Ukraine together. Ever since Canada World Youth ended in the spring of 2004, I told myself that I'd darn tootin' be back for summer 2006. It will be so nice to see those far away Poles and Ukranians and to visit Vienna for a while, but I will let you know how that all turns out once I am there...

As for the last few days of University and besides the German parties and Andrea nearly killing her shoulder transporting my bed down a flight of stairs, Andrea and I managed to sum up our second year at University in a very smooth fashion. After a delectable supper, we brought out the leftover Port from her birthday and two cigarillos and went out on her balcony. We pondered, we philosophized, and we were basically the largest wannabes of the intelligent and drop dead sexy Boston Legal star, Alan Shore (James Spader), and funny and smart as all hell, Denny Crane (William Shatner). I was Alan Shore, and Andrea, Denny.

Good thing I proof read this entry or else I would have never discovered the "I smell bad" that my brother surreptitiously wedged in between "gone home" and "started treeplanting". Word to the wise, never leave your unfinished blog entry unattended.

Good day to you, sir!

There are times when I wish I could just give someone a handshake instead of hugging them. And what about the tipping of the hat? Now that was a good idea.

I honestly don't know where girls get the idea of hugging everyone. And I'm not exaggerating when I say everyone. You meet them once at a wine and cheese and have a half-decent, humourous conversation, and the next time they see you, they bombard you with a suffocating squeeze, making your personal space virtually non-existent.

I do realize that I am only specifically referring to girls around my age at this particular university, but I also do know that girls in many places have a tendency to shriek, do the "omigod" thing, and hug like there's no tomorrow.

Now, let it be known that I have absolutely nothing against hugging. I think it is a very comforting and warm act. It is sometimes very nice to be in an embrace with someone, but I tend to only reserve hugs to people I am very close with, such as my family, my colleague, and a select few of my close friends. I am not one to hug an acquaintance. You will have to climb much higher on my social list before you can even think of getting a hug.

In terms of hugs, though, the problem is that you can't always be the one to initiate them. If someone is coming up to you and you can see the budding hug in their eyes (and the way their arms are parted), then well, you're done for. Might as well just accept it.

As I mentioned in a previous entry, I am not very touchy-feely; human contact has to be carefully used and not just thrown about. I think hugs have lost their meaning because of the way they are overused. I'll only hug a friend when I'm really feeling like I want to physically feel close to them. Maybe I haven't seen them for awhile, or maybe I am just very happy to be with them. It depends on the moment, the mood, and the general environment. The family, of course, always gets free hug passes.

I will, however, hug someone that maybe isn't a close friend of mine, but someone who is going away for a while. I will hug those that I miss, and I will hug those that I admire, and I will even hug people just for being superb.

So, perhaps the real problem with hugs is not the act of hugging itself, but incorrect hug timing.

There are times when a hug can really complete the moment, but there are other times when a hug is awkward and simply too much. Hugs have to feel special and feel right in the moment and not just something that all girls do when they say hi and bye.

A few days ago, I was around two drama guys who were departing (two whom I don't know particularly well). The girls went up and hugged them, the guys gave them handshakes, and when they got close to me, I stuck out my hand and smiled sweetly. I lowered my voice and said something about seeing you late and good luck with future endeavours or something else just as ridiculous.

Parting is such sweet sorrow!

An Ode to Foot

Oh, the year was 1999...

It was the beginning of September, and there I was, this wimpy, little barely weighing one hundred pounds thing, with limp red hair, and books clutched tightly to my chest.
It was my first day of high school.

Although I hadn't gotten lost yet, I still couldn't get over the size of my new school. Coming from a school with only one hallway and one girls' bathroom was quite an adjustment to this two-storey building with at least three girls' bathrooms! Everything seemed so big to me, especially the older students. Who ever thought that someone close to my age could actually seem that intimidating to me? They seemed to own the school; they joked with teachers, had "their" table in the cafeteria, and did you ever feel special when they talked to you. I envied those kids and was scared of them.

So, there I was at the dreaded time: lunch hour. Who was I supposed to sit with? I had come from a French Catholic school to an English Public school, and I knew almost no one. Of course, I recognized a few people from around Chesterville, but they were all large dinkos by my books, and I had no idea how to even strike up a conversation with them. Do you have to narrow your conversation down to four-wheelers and snowmobiles? Was I supposed to swear? Thankfully, I did know Johanna, and I figured that I could sit with her. She was demoted to my back-up plan because she had made already a lot of friends from middle school, and she seemed to know half of the high school population already.

I was on my tiptoes, peeking into the already full cafeteria, hoping to see another lost soul that I could sit with. I was almost about to give up hope when "it" happened.

There she was, like a ray of light breaking through the grey clouds; she was coming right towards me, coming from the cafeteria, and all I could think was Hallelujah! A familiar face that didn't induce hick thouhts. She was tall, had dark brown hair, a dimple on one cheek when she smiled, and sported a pair of beltless jeans. Finally, here was my saviour from this two-storey, three girls' bathroom, confusing building! I was so happy to see her. She and I had both had drama earlier in the day, but we hadn't thought of eating lunch together.

So, we sat down together, munching on our sandwiches (that probably contained meat for both of us back then), and we began talking about the new, frightening world of high school. We weren't that close friends then, as we had just met each other the previous summer. We were still getting to know each other, and regretfully, no Miranda moments or slow Alanna moments had blossomed yet.

As time went one, we got to know each other, and we learned that we had a lot in common. However, the one thing that we definitely did not have in common was our height. We were almost one foot apart. I think it complemented us well, as it made us look always a little quirky when we stood beside each other.

I think one thing that we will both remember is how exactly we first started talking to each other and becoming friends. We met whilst doing the play, Anne of Green Gables. One day, when were in the changing room, trying on different dresses, she and I both went to look in the mirror at the same time. It was a funny sight. Thanks to our height, we weren't blocking each other's faces.

So now, the saying goes: We knew that we would first be friends when we realized that we could both look into a mirror at the same time!

We're pretty lame, but that's why Alanna seeked me out that first day. There was no way in heck that I was even going to dream of sitting with the so-called "cool" kids. We were totally beyond that.

Of course, I could also bring up the stories about how Foot became Foot and what happens when we did music videos, but that, my friend, is a story perhaps only reserved for the lascivious AMA tales.

Now, in terms of the lack of recent entries, well, I won't really apologize, but I will say this: Addis Ababa is the capital of Ethiopia. Say it three times fast and then phone our hotline and our very own Baba will be there to serve you.

Pardon me whilst I indulge

Two weekends ago was the choir show, and man, was it ever successful!

We sold out for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday's show on the prior Tuesday! People who didn't manage to snag a ticket were invited to come to Thursday's dress rehearsal for free. Bandeen Hall was at least three quarters full, I'd say. The show opened officially with a bang on Friday night, and the bang was far from winding down. Saturday was also extremely energetic, and we even got a standing ovation at intermission. Sunday was the last show, and did we ever blow the audience away! I can't say I have ever been part of a show that has had this much praise before. Not only that, but everyone is so blown away by the show (expectations are always surpassed, I must say), and they simply can't get over the fact that a mere choir is capable of being so dynamic and alive. I tell you now, this ain't no normal choir, and if I ever needed to use a double negative, that was the place.

There has been talk about moving the choir into the larger theatre, Centennial, so more people get the chance to see it. The problem with that is that the choir will lose one of the aspects (of many) that make it so great -- the intimacy. Of course, Bandeen Hall has the best acoustics on campus, but what is so great about it is that it is the perfect size. Everyone in the audience, pretty much no matter where you sit, feels involved in the show.

After Sunday's show, we all squished into cars and made it to our pianist's place in downtown Sherbrooke for our choir after-party. Andrea and I got a ride with an ex-choir member. My jaw dropped when I entered the pianist's loft -- it was one large room with hardwood floor: huge windows overlooked the Granada Theatre directly across, and she has not one but two grand pianos. She also has piano books of all kinds imaginable lying around. One of the pianos was golden and had a (fake) violin lying on top, so I think that one was just for show, but the other piano was a grand Steinway (some of you will understand how very magnificent this is). A grand Steinway piano can cost over $60 000. However, this 27-year old piano player doesn't seem to be scraping the bottom of the barrel.

So, needless to say, I couldn't stray too far from this superb piano, so I stayed near it and danced for the majority of the after-party, save a trip outside and many trips to the food table.

Ah yes, the food table. Not only is she the best piano player around, but our pianist had set up a most amazing feast for almost ninety of us. I had never been to a party with a spread this elaborate before. Just to name a few, there was: at least eight different kinds of cheeses, at least six different types of dips (one was spinach!), various pasta salads, two different kinds of homemade pizzas, crackers, chips, fruit galore, whipped cream, two cheesecakes, chocolate, and two large platters of sushi! Now, at least you can imagine how amazing this was. You know I would have invited you, but Abu Dhabi is too far to come from just for a choir show after-party.

I danced like mad, sung so loudly and passionately that, when 3:30 am rolled around, my voice resembled that of a 50-year old hardcore smoker. Sabrina, this extremely funny, laid-back chick, Andrea, and I all took a taxi back home, all the while Andrea loudly commenting on how badly our taxi driver was tailgating. It was a superb night.

On a completely unrelated note, I find it particularly odd that people who tell me they have only $4.31 in their bank account still manage to go out and drink. And not only girls, either.

An Unsuitable Dinner Conversation

Tonight, somehow the fact that Andrea has a fear of spit came about. In the film, Die Blechtrommel, Oskar's way of flirtation with his nanny is by spitting into her hand, sprinkling some sugar in it, and then she would lick it up seductively. Admittedly, it is kind of gross, but not something to induce gag reflexes.

Andrea cannot bear even have the visual in mind or else she'll start gagging. When I pointed out that in kissing there is in fact a lot of spit going around, she said that to her it's completely different. The gross part is when the spit is out and then ingested again (by the spitter or by someone else). I do understand how this is kind of disgusting, but it does not make my face twist into a weird oh-my-god-I-am-going-to-upchuck-soon grimace.

Speaking of vomit, of course, when one person's fear comes out, mine usually does too. Although the spitting and ingesting it again thought isn't pleasant, it is vomit that does it for me every time. I wimpered when Andrea brought it up. I can hardly stand the thought of vomit (and vomiting itself), and probably the majority people who read this blog know this quite well already.

Then, Paula told us about her "totally irrational fear": sharks! Ever since she saw Jaws last year, she has been deathly afraid of sharks. She even admitted to having daydreams about little sharks in her bathtub. Andrea and I tried to reassure her that little sharks wouldn't do much harm because they are so little, you see. I asked Andrea what she thought about a little bit of cold, frothy spit. She moaned and put her head between her knees.

Whilst Andrea was breathing heavily and Paula trying to regain her senses after a shark scare, I said:

"Imagine a pool of vomit topped off with frothy spit with sharks swimming inside?"

We all moaned and shook our heads, trying to fend off the horrible nightmare.

Paula wondered why we were trying to think of our worst fear.

"But wait", she said with hope, her mind focussed solely on the sharks, "with all the vomit and spit in the pool, the sharks wouldn't be able to survive!"

We all thought about it for a minute.

But then she exclaimed: "But that wouldn't be good either! They would all sink to the bottom, and I wouldn't be sure that they would be dead, and I would still be scared!"

We all groaned again, Paula thinking about not knowing if the sharks would be dead or not, Andrea thinking of the cold, frothy spit, and me imagining nothing else but the vomit.

I asked Paula how she would feel if I chucked her into the Spit and Vomit Shark-Filled pool covered in blood. She said she would be dead.

We decided it best to change the subject.

Curses

Perhaps the worst thing about disliking someone is how to react when they are friendly and nice to you. I mean, it's not like they ever did anything personally wrong to you.

Ah, woe is me.

Spring Music

The last two days have been deliciously warm, and all I have wanted to do was skip, frolic, wear dresses, and when people ask me how-are-you, I would answer with an enthusiastic "swimmingly".

Well, I did get around to doing two out of those four things, but unfortunately, school work, choir practises, and work shifts seem to eat up the rest of the sunny hours. The beginning of spring is a very busy time at University, and the way I get involved, I seem to make it all the busier.

Not only is the weather getting warmer and nicer, but many music shows and music students' honours exams are happening now. The past few weeks, I have managed to see at least one, if no two shows, per weekend. They all have been exceptionally well done. This Sunday night, I am seeing curly red-haired Emily perform, and then I will have seen all the House of Love's music talent. And let us not forget the receptions that follow the shows, which usually contain a plentiful spread of fancy and old cheeses; it is always a nice way to finish the evening. I must say, this is one of my favourite choices of evening entertainment. A night at the theater or a night at a music show? What lovely things to choose from! Of course, there are other things that are on par with such cultured entertainment, such as camping, canoeing, cycling, soccer, hiking, walking, but those activities always depend on the weather.

I don't think I can stress enough how much I enjoy the changing of seasons; I enjoy winter to spring, summer to fall, and fall to winter, in order of season-changing preference. For some reason, I don't count spring to summer as a change in seasons, even though I suppose it is. I just think of it as something that just comes so slowly and unobtrusively, so it never really enters my mind.

Under the clear, bright skies, countless students were seen outside today, throwing around a frisbee, playing guitar, lying on the grass, and chucking a ball around, giving me the sudden urge to play catch. It made me wonder if my brother still has the two old mitts lying around...

I hope Bab will be pleased to hear that I am anxious to get my bike out and running again. I am sure, however, that he is way ahead of me on this one.

A force to be reckoned with

Ever since joining the choir, I have learned that there is a lot more to it than just singing and listening. Our choir, like many other groups and organizations, suffer from "The Politics". I always thought it was a bad use of the word "politics" when it came to describing the little and unsaid stuff, but specifically the underlying feuds or grudges in groups. Even in our theatre group back at home, there are tons of politics. In fact, it looks like the group has somewhat split into two, which has resulted in the "Bad, unorganized, and messy group", and the "talented, hard-working, and money-making group". Of course, I am part of the latter, but, of course, who knows what the other side thinks. Unfortunately, I am biased.

Anyway, I digress.

I am mostly familiar with the politics within the Soprano group, as I am one of them. I am not one to stir up politics, especially because I joined late and am not a music major and thus not comfortable taking the lead and forming catty groups; I am not on my turf. It makes a difference.
Either way, I am not inclined to stir up anything anyway.
There is an unwritten rule within the Soprano group that many of the prima donna fourth years have reserved front seats. This rule carries over to the choir show placement, as they are mostly all in the front. That doesn't bother me, though. I'm not endeavouring to be the star of the show here. In fact, I think most of them who are in front should be in front because of their exceptional voice and stage presence. Naturally, this cannot be said about everyone who has won their front seat, but I think the majority deserve to shine.

Now, enough positiveness. What I hate, what makes me shake with rage, what makes my blood boil as hot as the lava in the Aladdin movie is a petite, 50 something year old who is in the Sopranos. Besides her frame, there is nothing else petite about her; she is irritating, annoying, and has an extremely terrible voice. Her voice is enough to make you think a fire alarm got set off; if you compared her voice to Oskar Mazareth's shriek in Die Blechtrommel, you would swear that Oskar has the voice of an angel.

She tries to be chummy-chummy with the rest of us, whilst at the same time trying to show us how much better she is. She enjoys interrupting the choir, pointing something out to the choir director that we did wrong; we then sing it again, for her sake, and she messes it up. What kind of woman tries immaturely to show up a bunch of 20 somethings? She's one of a kind, I tell you.

So, now you must ask yourself the question: how on earth did this woman get into the choir? Simple, her husband is a professor at the University. It is for this sole reason that she feels that she is da bomb. She doesn't seem to do her own thing or have her own life because she is always here, hanging out with her husband. She's doesn't even work here.

And that brings me back to the politics. Her and her husband have a fued between another couple who work at the University. He is also a music professor, and she helps out with the choir. Of course, both wives started the feud for who knows what reason, and then the poor husbands got schlepped along and now must be on their wives side. Apparently, it causes some animosity in the music department, and a few students have said that it causes problems.

Because wife number two helps out in our choir, she was in charge of the seating placement for the choir show. Even though shrieky wife is shorter than I am, she was put in the very last row. This puts a smile on my face.
It is true, though, that I do not care much for either couple. But if the two couples were ever to fight and draw in the students with them, I would easily jump on the non-shrieky couple bandwagon and enjoy the pleasant and probably a more peaceful ride.

An Ode to German

Taking advantage of the free music shows that Bandeen Hall at Bishop's offers, Andrea and I have been lately spending our Friday and sometimes Saturday nights at the Hall, soaking in the classical music.

Tonight, we attended the honours voice performance of a voice major, Rachael. I know her from drama (as she used to be a double major) and through other friends. She has an outstanding voice, and her range is incredible. She picked Mozart, Schubert, Puccini and some more modern guy (as in, he's not dead yet). She has exceptionally good stage presence, and you can tell that she's into the music and that she feels it. Even though we may not understand the words, we can sense what she is singing about just in the way she sings and moves. I especially enjoyed her Schubert pieces; they were the most exciting and the most inspiring to me, actually inducing goosebumps a few times!

I've also noticed that I've been enjoying the German language more and more these days. I mean, I've heard it all of of my life, but I realize that German in music and musical theatre is simply breathtaking. German is perceive as a harsh language whereas Italian is traditionally the beautiful one, made for operas and music. But, I find there is something with German that makes it all the more poignant and awe-strucking when sung. It seems like a more "real" language, something more touching and more humanity driven, whilst Italian seems to be more floaty and angelic to me. I feel German has real soul to it.

It could possibly be owning to the fact that I understand some German and that I can identify more with it; however, I think most has to do with the sound. As beautiful as Italian may sound, it seems like it has less personality, if you will, to it. I feel that German, really just the sound of it, can express moods and emotions wonderfully, whether it be utmost happiness or feelings of suicide. It is versatile, it can grasp life's trials and tribulations, and it inspires and strikes me when sung.

A blend of Germany and Poland

I had a dream last night that I went to Germany with a few other people. The people that I remember the most in my dream were Adam and Lina, a couple who are in my German class. Anyway, we were all staying in this house that was actually called a "cabin" that my Polish host father had. I kept getting confused whether we were in Germany or in Poland because our German "cabin" looked a lot like my host father's house. The rooms were tiny (even smaller than the real house), and I remember all crowding around this tiny kitchen table to eat whilst Adam was in bed. He was sick for the entirety of our stay, so he had to stay in bed.

It seemed like this dream was entirely focussed on confusion. My host father would speak bad German and then fast Polish, and I would get super confused. I was told that this "cabin" was near a big German city, but then I was sure that we were only near the small town, Stoszowice, in Poland. Lina and I, as well as perhaps Olya, all wanted to go and explore this big city, but I got the impression that we were in Poland and that the big city was a bus ride away. After being told again that we were indeed in Germany and not in Poland (despite the landscape looking very familiar to me), I asked how close we were to the German border. My host father either said 45 or 54 kilometres but because German says the second number first when saying a two-digit number and because I never knew if he was speaking German or Polish, I really had no idea how far we were. I figured it must be 45 kilometres because it is a more rounded number, and people are less likely to say 54. Ultimately, it didn't matter because I was confused enough as it was. It was also frustrating, in a way, because I understand most German spoken, and I could barely understand a word he was saying. I wasn't sure if he was saying every second word in Polish or something, but that could have very well been the case.

Adam continued being sick. I have a distinct image of him in this bed right beside the kitchen table, him talking in a raspy voice and having a red nose. I remember seeing and eating the same kind of food that I ate at home in Poland. We kept talking about going to "a German store", but we never did. Maybe it was because we were in Poland? Or in limbo? Or in this weird place that fused Germany and Poland together?

I was debating whether or not telling Adam and Lina about this dream this morning. I don't know them that well -- I would categorize them as acquaintances -- so it was probably a good idea that I didn't.

The Rolling Stones' Castigation

It's strange that the United States has no trouble participating in wars, seeing countless scenes of violence on television, but yet some of the country can't stomach certain "bad" words in a rock song. The Rolling Stones played at half-time at this year's Superbowl, and they were told by the National Football League officals that they had to censure the songs "Start Me Up" and "Rough Justice" because apparently some of the lyrics were "too sexually explicit" (what is exactly too explicit?) to be broadcasted. The Stones first did agree to censure those songs but then decided later that it was "completely unnecessary" to cut the lyrics to those songs. So, what were the officials forced to do? Well, cut the sound during those "unappriopriate" lyrics. Maybe that's why the sound was so crappy for the duration of their short concert.
The cut lyrics to "Start Me Up" were You'd make a dead man cum while the cut lyrics from "Rough Justice" were: Once upon a time I was your little red rooster/now I'm just one of your cocks. You can read about it here.

So, the words are a little racy; so what? First of all, if the League couldn't handle this kind of language that they knew in advance existed in some of the Rolling Stones' songs, then why hire them in the first place? Why hire them and then ask them to cut out some of their lyrics? Yes, the Stones did initially agree to censure the words and then went back on their word, but come on, why the big kerfuffle? I don't understand why people would think it was unappropriate, especially since they knew in advance that it would be the rock 'n' roll band, the Stones, playing, not Sharon, Lois, and Bram. So, yes, if the children's singing trio had used words like cum and cock, then maybe that would shock people. But these are the Stones we're talking about, and if you simply cannot handle them, don't hire them. Besides, it's not like the Stones have extremely good diction when they sing and we can hear every word so clearly... no, sometimes their lyrics are hard to understand, and I bet most people didn't know those lyrics even existed (even after hearing the song many times before).

Some people!
I think I need a hot chocolate.

Condemnation

Censorship!

This word does not sit well with many young people. It's strange because when you think about it, we censore things all the time.

I, for instance, am not taking the liberty to write everything that I think of on this blog: I am being selective. Sure, there are things that I just wouldn't write because it isn't of interest (which is a kind of censorship in itself), but there are also those things that I don't write because I know that it isn't "appropriate" for some of my readers (read: that I don't want some people to see). Also, I do not write anything that is very personal to either my friends or I. I know that all sorts of people read this, or so I like to believe, so I will just not write some things.

Also, when we speak, perhaps we won't always say what we have on our minds, depending on whom we are talking to. There are some things that I will only say to a specific friend and not to an acquaintance, for instance. It's a kind of self-centorship. Perhaps you'd be more inclined to call it "tact" or "common sense", but I've realized that common sense can't just be thrown out there as a blanket term. Common sense, unfortunately, cannot be used to really designate anything. Sometimes I wish I could say, "Just use your common sense", and then that person would act accordingly, and you would know what to expect. Ah, but as fate and the differences in humanity would have it, the meaning of common sense varies from person to person. Some people's common sense tells them one thing, other people's common sense tells them something else, and some people seem to have left common sense in the womb. It's too bad really.

Of course, there is also the "other" kind of censorship, the "real" kind that bans books, controls media, and prevents certain actions. We may not have the same kind of censorship that other countries are subjected to, but certainly there is much in Canada that is censured. It is quite ridiculous when you hear of books and movies deemed either "unappropriate" or "obscene" because what the heck does that mean? Who is to judge what is either of those terms? I think I know the answer: a small group of people. Custom officers have the liberty to censore things coming into the country and deem them "unappropriate" for Canada, and these small groups of people have equally the same amount of power.

I guess I am to assume that our country is filled with a bunch of brainless idiots because why on earth do we need special people (who knows what kind of people they are) deciding whether or not I can watch The Tin Drum, for instance? Why do other people decide for me what is morally right or too obscene for me?

I suppose it's because of the same reason that some things on the news and in newspapers are "just not said". It's a kind of censorship that allows certain higher people to control us, control us to some extent of what we think and what to do. But anyway, I don't want to get into that.

There are some things that are censured that I just don't understand. I think books can be written about virtually anything, disgusting and all, because first of all, it's a book, not real people doing it to each other (perhaps "based on a true story" would bring about other problems, though), and second of all, you can decide not to read it! Yes! You can tell yourself that you won't read this book because of its horrendous content. There. You've just censured yourself from not reading it, and you can now walk away, buy some raspberries, and pick up a Margaret Atwood read (if you are so inclined, yikes).

It was just in the 1960s that Lady Chatterley's Lover was put back on the shelves, after being highly controversial and banned for years, no longer deemed hazardous for English readers. Because it had some "naughty" language in it and was all about the physical part of sex being so wonderful between a bourgeois woman and a peasant man, no less, the book was definitely gasp worthy, and the general public could not, under any circumstances, subject themselves to such a horrible read! Yup, that's what we were told by who knows who. When Lady Chatterley's Lover was written, the clergy had a stronger hold on society, so they probably had a lot to do with it. These days, it is rarely our elected government who decides these things; it is that small group of appointed people.

I say if people want to write obscene things or if they want to make the most disgusting porn films, then be my guest. I don't need other people to ban a movie that involves sex between a person and an animal and say it is "unappropriate" and "wrong"; I can decide myself not to watch it. We should all be able to decide ourselves what we want to see or not. But what about the children? The children?! Well, keep sex stuff away from them until they hit the wonderful age of 17, and then you can give them the Joy of Sex book for their birthday.

Child pornography, however, is a touchy issue because there are so many laws in our society surrounding it. It's really hard to determine what we can say about that. Of course, we all can agree that consent should be involved, but who is to judge if a child is old enough to make that decision?
I'm not saying that we should adopt the notion about kids in Brave New World, but maybe looking at it will make us think a little more and most likely bring us back to square one...

New Photos

Check out my latest Reading Break pictures at Zaz's positives: aisle 4, and do let me know if they tickle your fancy.

No day but today

About a month after coming back from Poland, I headed off to Nova Scotia. Although most of my time was spent in Halifax, I did get a chance to spend a weekend at my aunt and uncle's house. Sunday morning found us at their United Church; my cousin was playing flute at the service, so we all went to watch her.

I remember a lot of specifics from this visit, probably owning to the fact that I kept a very detailed diary during that time; however, what really stuck in my head from that weekend, and not only on paper, was the minister's sermon.

The minister was this large, jolly looking woman who wore colourful clothing, an inviting smile, and, of course, the unmistakable white collar. This was one of the most laid-back and liberal churches I have ever been in, and she personified the general feeling of the church.

Her sermon was about our busy North American lives. North Americans work long hours, manage a house, a family, often do extra activities, and we just never seem to have enough time. You hear people complaining all the time as to how little time they have and how they would love to have more time. Our society is very fast-paced, people want instant gratification, and the saying that "patience is a virtue" is perhaps heard but definitely not seen.

She talked about how important and how rewarding it is when we slow down and take things at a slower and perhaps a more comfortable pace. We're sometimes move so fast that we hardly have the time to smell the flowers, let alone live life. She said that our lives may seem out of our control at times, as we don't seem to have any hold on how fast things are moving. As hard as it may be, she deemed it important that we slow down, smell those flowers, eat slowly, and spend time leisurely with people we want. What is life, she asked, if it just passes you by?

This sermon was of particular interest for me considering I had just come back from Poland. Rural Poland is a world of a difference from fast-paced North American lives. Think of your life as a car going 100 km/h on the highway. When you take an exit, you slow down to fifty or sixty or so, and you really feel the slowness because you've been going so fast for so long. That's how it felt like.
Everything seemed to be moving at such a slower pace. It was very nice in many ways, people would sit around, talk, laugh a little, remember... But, after awhile, one gets tired of that. People had often little motivation or desire to do some things. I found that there was a general feeling of lethargy that just wouldn't go away. Unemployment was high; over 30 percent of the population was jobless, so there was plenty of room for restlessness and frustration.

This did not affect me as much as the rural community in which we were staying, as I was on a program which generally did its own thing. Although, because we worked within the community, we could definitely feel the slow and drawn-out atmosphere. This leisurely pace of life sauntered along and felt relaxed but it also, at the same time, felt painstakingly slow.

It was a very odd thing to adapt to. All of a sudden, very few things seemed rushed, which was such a turn from my normal life.

So, returning home after the program, I was submersed back our busy way of life. I actually had been craving being busy and on-the-move for quite a while now. I was eager to get going.
Personally, I prefer being busy. I prefer having something almost constantly on the go, and I find that I can do a lot more with my time when I actually have a lot to do.

But ultimately, I think there needs to be a balance in one's pace of life. It can't go so fast that it passes you by, but it also can't move at a snail's pace. I suppose things like this often can't be helped in societies. Ideally, people here should work less and have more time to themselves. It would give them a better and more sound grasp on their lives.
On the flip side, there is high unemployment, which is a more difficult thing to fix. However, taking into consideration Poland's joining of the European Union, rural Poland may soon be on an upswing.

Here is an excerpt from La Scouine, a novel that takes place in 1918 Québec. It was censured by the Catholic clergy because of its negative and sombre approach to religious life in the country, which the clergy incessantly preached to be the best kind of life:

"Comme à la campagne, ils s'éveillent le matin au point du jour, mais comme ils n'ont rien à faire, ils attendent encore dans leur lit jusqu'à six heures, alors que la cloche de l'hospice à la voix lente, triste et voilée, tinte mélancoliquement et les fait sortir de leur couche. Ils se lèvent en même temps que les vieux et les orphelins. Après avoir rôdé quelques temps dans l'habitation, ils se mettent à table sans faim. Ils voient les enfants jouer dans la cour sous l'oeil d'une soeur et les vieillards faire quelques pas et s'assoeir sur un banc. Monotone, interminable, s'écoule la journée" (135).

"[Charlot] s'éveillera sans but, sans occupation, en se demandant comment il pourra bien tuer le temps. C'est qu'il en sera ainsi toujours et toujours. Il a renoncé à la terre pour aller goûter le repos, la vie facile, et il n'a trouvé que l'ennui, un ennui motel, dévorant. Il ne vit pas; il attend la mort" (142).