Something weather-related

 "We had the worst weather today!" I tell this to my sister as we greet each other on the virtual call that makes 800+km of distance shrink down to mere milliseconds in cyberspace.

"Let me guess," she says, "Three inches of ice and you can't get into your car?"

"YES!  And there was a THUNDERSTORM AT THE SAME TIME!!!!"

"........ wow."

I'm glad I don't have to drive anywhere this morning...

I feel like by posting this picture I'm inviting other Canadians to join me in a weather measuring contest of "my weather is worse than yours!" Take exhibit A, sent to me by a friend this morning:

She told me she couldn't get out of the driveway this morning.

Or exhibit B, taken from my Facebook feed:

Years ago, when I was travelling across the Canada I remember overhearing someone comment that "Canadians sure like to talk about the weather."   

 "....Yeah, because we have a lot of it!" Was the reply.  

I also once heard a statistic that Canada has more weather channels than pretty much any other country on earth.  Indeed, the first lesson for small talk 101 in Canada is "If you have nothing else to talk about then talk about the weather!"

So all that said, I don't know if this blog entry has anything significant to say other than to talk about the weather.  Like, last year we got a crazy windstorm in Ottawa that knocked power out at my home for a week. The local trails were untraversable for the rest of the summer due to the number of knocked down trees blocking the paths.

I exaggerate not.  This is a tame example.  I didn't even capture a photo of the tree that fell on a house down the street.

I wasn't even surprised this morning when I arrived at the local coffee shop to receive the inquiry from the owner that she has repeated to every person who has come in since, "Do you have power?"  The truth is that we lost power at our house only for 10 minutes last night at 8:30pm, but apparently the people down the street have lost power overnight and still have no power this morning.  Somehow, after last year's experience of losing power for a week, I fail to be shocked.

I guess the small silver lining that may go unappreciated amidst our crazy Canadian weather is that it gives us something in common, almost akin to a national identity.  It is something we can talk about, something that unites us in experience, and builds the sense of community, of fighting against a common foe.  With all the war and political drama around us, I'd definitely prefer if weather was the only source of conflict, instead of each other.

Something velcro

It was after I arrived in Quebec that I began to see them.  They were everywhere - seemingly sprouting up around every corner - and I began to wonder to myself: "How many outdoor skating rinks does a city really need?"  No, I'm not talking about the frozen puddles in the middle of the street intersections or the ice-covered risk-your-life-to-use-them sidewalks. I'm talking about honest-to-goodness real-life skating rinks!



IT'S AWESOME!!! 

 

I have seen outdoor skating rinks before, but they have always been small and few and far between, kind of like my lottery ticket wins. It is probably because the winters in southern British Columbia are occasionally prone to periods of crazy thawing, making ice retention a bit of an issue. Take exhibits "A" and "B" for example, taken a month ago near my hometown:

 



EXHIBIT A:
Tulip Creek in Southern BC
Taken around January 16, 2016
Photo by Cristi-Lynn Villecourt

 "Winter in the Kootenays is kind of like having a generous aunt who shows up from time to time with cookies and a warm hug.  Winter in Quebec, by contrast, is like that cantankerous uncle with the frigid personality whom you can't seem to get to leave the house."
~ Myself, written right now 



EXHIBIT B:
Same place. It's only a little difference right?
Taken 2 weeks later, January 30, 2016
Photo by Stephanie Michelle Harron

A real benefit to the more consistently-cold winter of Quebec is that it allows for a genuine urban winter-culture to develop in and around the city.  And that culture manifests itself as skating rinks: many, many, beautiful puddles of frozen water for people to gracefully glide and fall on.  And seeing all of those many, many beautiful puddles of frozen water I couldn't help but feel an inner longing to join the people of the city in their winter-cultural pastime of gliding and falling.

Yes, it didn't take me long to make the decision: I needed a pair of skates.

Doing the mental math I quickly determined that it would probably be cheaper for me to purchase a pair of skates then trying to rent a pair any time the fancy to skate overtook my imagination.  My imagination can be rather overactive, and rentals average around $8 a pair per session. This equates to a hole burning through my pocketbook if I had to rent a pair everytime I wanted to step on the ice for 20 minutes.  And yes, I am under no illusions: my flights of fancy on the ice would last for almost exactly 20 minutes.  My feet have special magical skill of turning blue whenever they decide that they are getting too cold.  Spending prolonged periods of time in outdoor temperatures of minus something ridiculous is one of the fastest ways I can think of to tell my toes that I don't need them anymore.

On the other hand of the cost equation, I knew that the likelihood of using the skates again after I left Quebec City would probably be equivalent to me deciding to spend $6 for a head of cauliflower (aka: not likely; does anyone need cauliflower that much?).   The most economical decision therefore was to Google whatever "a thrift store" was in French (un magasin deuxieme-main) and hope that someone else in the city has perfectly average size 8 feet, just like me. 

Fortunately, stressing the perfectly average size of my feet and the abundance of skating ponds in the city, I correctly assumed that such thing would not be difficult to find.  The first thrift store I visited, La Village de Valeurs (translation: Value Village), had exactly 3 pairs of skates that would theoretically fit my feet.  One was missing the laces, the second pair was so rusted over that I wasn't even sure if they could be sharpened, and the third used Velcro fasteners that were falling off.  After weighing my options, I chose the pair with the least amount of rust - option #3 - and discovered that the skates were lacking one vital piece of information: a price tag.

It did not take me long to determine what needed to be done; I needed to go to the till and utilise my fledgling French communication skills to tell the cashier:

1. that I couldn't find the price tag, but
2. that the Velcro on the skates was falling off, and
3. ask if she could quote me a price for the skates. 

It would be like a right of passage for my advancement in Quebec society from "I can't speak French" to "I can communicate in rudimentary, pre-thought-out sentences!"  Advancement! What an exciting and novel concept: never before attempted on such a scale by yours truly!

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders, taking out my phone.  First things first.  I needed to find out the French word for Velcro. 

Incidentally, it is Velcro.

And so, having officially passed that advancement test with flying colours, I am now the proud owner of a pair of size 8 used ladies skates that sport a minimal amount of rust and velcro that likes to fall off.

The best thing about the purchase was the price: $5.99.  Less than the cost of rentals!  Less than a head of cauliflower!  I am feeling like the queen of bargain hunters!

TA-DA!

Something about a tuque

Before I left home to study French in Quebec I had spend a lot of effort getting ready to prepare for the Québécois winter I had heard about in legend: 

• I had invested in a quality pair of winter boots that had extra insulation, super treads, and came in an incredible trendy combination of brown leather and teal. 
• I had dug out my Walmart special down-filled white winter jacket that was now a little off white and losing a few feathers, but still warm. 
• I was wearing my hand-crocheted blue winter scarf that is still a little singed from that time I wore it while cooking (don't ask). 
• I also had my awesome blue gloves on that let me type on my touch-screen while wearing them - you have no idea how amazingly useful this is!!! 

Yes, I was well equipped except for one thing: the night before I had left home I had somehow managed to misplace my favourite white, slightly stained and strangely large, winter tuque*.  I had torn my room apart but for some inexplicable reason it had disappeared!  I even bemoaned the fact to my mother in a whimpery voice, doing my best impression of a whiney child, "Moooommy, I can't find my tuuuque...."  As the day of my departure was literally one sleep away, I had to resort to packing what I considered to be my second-best winter apparel.

Bienvenue à Québéc! Il fait froid ici!

And so the first day of school in Quebec dawned, bright and clear with a forecasted temperature of -12**, feeling like -27 with its 40km/h humid wind that strips the warmth from your soul and leaves you feeling like your face had just been dipped in liquid nitrogen.  I donned tuque backup #1 for my 20 minute walk to school: a green knit beanie that likes to contract until it completely slides off my head.  The walk to school thus consisted of me walking with my hand up above my shoulders, tugging my beanie back down like it was a bra-strap that wouldn't stay up.  To be honest, I would have just taken the beanie off, except for the fact that I was pretty sure that if I didn't wear something on my head I would probably lose my ears to frostbite.

Frustrated with day one's experience I decided to try something different for day two: a pair of black sparkly earmuffs that would have no problem covering that particularly vulnerable area of my anatomy.  Ears fully protected, I ventured out into the cold only to be confronted with a completely new adversity; not even halfway to the school I began to get a temperature-inflicted headache. That's right, without the proper covering for my forehead I was getting brain-freeze!!!  Previously I had thought that brain-freeze was an affliction for those who liked to pig out on ice cream or drink their Slurpee's at record-breaking speeds. Now I know the truth: brain-freeze can also be mother nature's way of mocking you for wearing fuzzy earmuffs and not a more practical head-covering.  I went home that evening knowing that I would have to come up with a new solution or cave and buy a new tuque.

But I am stubborn.

And lucky.

That night, after I met my real host family and started unpacking my belongings into my new room I pulled a box of feminine products out of my suitcase that was bulging strangely.  I was instantly excited, because I suddenly remembered what had happened!!!  The day before I left to go to Quebec I had been packing my suitcase and thought that I might not have enough room in my suitcase for everything.  So, in an effort to save space, I had shoved my white tuque into the little bit of empty space that existed in my box of pads.  In hindsight I acknowledge that it was a really strange place for a tuque.  It was so strange that afterwards I never thought about looking back in there for the tuque.  Yes, I might be just a little dense...and strange.  But I was really happy!  So happy, in fact, that I found my tuque that I started to do a little happy dance in my room because I knew that on day three I would have a proper tuque!  On day three my head wouldn't freeze! On day three I could instead happily take this picture:

From Facebook:
"Il y a -17 degrés ici, mais je trouve ma tuque blanche donc maintenant je fait chaud!"

NOTES:
*Fun language fact: "La tuque" is a French word that refers to a winter hat that covers the entire head and ears, like a proper winter hat should.
**For any Americans: all temperatures posted in this post are in Celsius.  Please use Google's temperature conversion feature if you want to know how ridiculously cold it was in Fahrenheit.

Something français

STOP!  In Montreal.

 

"Excusez-moi? Parlez vous anglais?" I asked the man behind the desk at the Metro in Montreal.  My innate sense of direction was not accessible this far underground and I needed to find the bus station so I could purchase my ticket to Ottawa. Unfortunately old-reliable Google maps couldn't get a signal either, so I was forced to approach a random stranger and reveal my general incompetence at speaking the French language in the hopes of garnering some directions.

 

The man did indeed speak English and pointed the way asking, "How old are you?"  I hesitated for a moment, not sure of the relevance of the question.  What did my age have to do with getting to the bus station?  Figuring there was no harm in telling him, as I am not one of those people who feels like they need to perpetually lie about how young they are - who would I be fooling anyways? - I answered him "I am almost 30."

 

"Almost 30!" He says incredulously, "You don't know French and you have had 30 years to learn the language?!"

 

I flushed in embarrassment, swallowing the words of protest before I took anything needlessly personally.  The comment was rude, but the man was right; I had 30 years to learn the French language and I still can barely say anything more than "Je ne parle pas francais" (which itself is an oxymoron in that I claim to not be able to speak French while speaking French *sigh*).  What that man didn't realize though is that I have tried, more often than most would, to learn a language that is as elusive to me as the legendary Canadian ogo-pogo lake monster.

 

My handicap began at a young age.  Unlike most average school-attending children in Canada I did not go to a public school that offered French education from the elementary grades. The private school curriculum I was studying did not offer French until grade 9.  Incidentally, grade 9 was when I moved to a home-schooling curriculum where French was required, BUT the course-work was all done by correspondence.  Have you ever tried learning a language by correspondence?  It's like trying to whistle, not realizing that you don't have lips! It was a complete utter disaster and waste of time!  When I entered public school at grade 10, French became an optional elective, and realizing that I was 10 years hopelessly behind in the subject compared to my peers, I exercised my option to not take it.

 

Now I have to admit, in those mid-teen years of my life French was not a language that appealed to me.  It was too flowy, too elegant.  Words blended together like the notes of a melody, indistinguishable where one left off and the other began.  Personally, I was much more a fan of the harsher sounding languages like Russian, or Japanese, or Klingon.  "P'tak, get me my borscht! Itadakimasu!" But as I grew older and developed a greater interest in all things Canadian, my interest in the French language began to change too.  I began to realize that there is something very precious and unique in being a bilingual nation of people.

 

I tried to rectify my previous reticence to learn the language in later years.  I took an intro course in Fruitvale offered by my bilingual pastors, and there I learned that the bathroom is "la salle de bain". I took an intro course in Calgary as part of a continuing education program and there I learned how to ask for the time "Quelle heure est-il?"   I took an intro course on my computer using the Rosetta Stone software.  I can now identify articles of clothing by their French name, and construct a few rudimentary sentences. "Je porte un manteau blanc" = "I wear a white coat".  Every time I take a new intro course I retain a little more, but I've reached that uncomfortable impasse where I am absolutely sick of intro-courses and yet my French is still at a beginner level!

 

You see, what that man failed to realize is that it's not that I haven't learnt French for the lack of motivation in taking French courses.  It's that I haven't learnt French because I haven't lived in the right environment to help me retain it!  And one thing I realized as I travelled this autumn is how wonderfully multi-lingual Canada is, especially out east.  That bilingualism made me jealous.  I want to be a good Canadian too.  I'm already struggling in that regard because I don't really like maple syrup or hockey, but maybe, just maybe I can learn to speak French.

 

Today I arrived in Quebec City to embark on a 6-month long French immersion educational experience.  I've had about 6 hours of pitiful sleep over the last 24 hours that I was able to squeeze out of the uncomfortable bus seat and 3 plane transfers. I am exhausted but excited because finally I know that the legendary lake monster that has been evading me all my life will be mine.  I am here to learn French, in an environment that is overwhelmingly French Canadian, and this time no English-dependence/addiction will stop me!

 

Quebec City, from my week-long visit to it in September of 2015

Something snowy




While the rest of Canada was dreaming of a white Christmas
that never arrived, the weather in the southern interior of BC
was apologizing for last year.

I love driving in the snow.  Take that look off your face, I'm serious!  Having done my fair share of winters of driving back and forth between Calgary and BC - a seven and a half hour drive made tolerable only by sugar/caffeine induced hyper-awareness and top of the lungs sing-a-long - it is a simple fact that snowy roads are the most fun and interesting!  What would normally be a dangerous snorefest of driving becomes an adrenaline pumping theme park equivalent that moment the tires begin to spin and the back end fish-tails out.  Instantaneously you are fully aware and present as you call upon all of your honed video game driving skills to not go out of control.  A careful course correction performed masterfully gives the thrill that you are indeed that awesome and you are completely in control of the roads; the roads are not controlling you.  You observe the empty roads, free and clear of other traffic and smirk at the expense of all the cowardly souls that would rather not be out on snowy highways, revelling at the freedom their absence brings - a freedom to go as fast or as slow as your common sense or lead foot desires.  In that moment driving ironically becomes a most relaxing activity even while demanding your full attention and skill.  Winter driving is an example of oxymoron at its best. 

My favourite stretch of road between Calgary and BC is the imposing mountain pass locals fondly refer to as the Salmo-Creston, incidentally placed right between the towns of Salmo and Creston, BC. A intimidating enough challenge in the summer with its blind corners and incredibly steep grade that can easily push a vehicle well past the 100km/ph speed limit just by coasting, in the winter the pass becomes a veritable roller-coaster, full of twists and turns, ups and downs, and surprises around every corner. 

One winter in particular stands out in my memory on the Salmo-Creston pass, when on the way to BC there was black ice so thick on the down-side of the mountain that I was being pulled off the road going 20km/ph.  Imagine for a moment, driving at the lowest possible speed limit and pressing the brakes only to find your vehicle drifting to the huge cliff of boulders that line the side of the road and finding yourself grateful that at least you aren't drifting in the other direction towards the 50 storey plunge.  That was fun. 

That same year on the way back to Calgary I got stuck on the same slope by an avalanche.  That's right, an avalanche.  The traffic was lined up along the side of the mountain waiting patiently for the plows to clear a tunnel through the pile of the snow.  Meanwhile we were also crossing our fingers that no more avalanches were in the forecast while we were stalled in our merry line-up, like bowling pins waiting to be knocked down.  If my luck couldn't be worse, I also made the un-brilliant decision to turn off my car while leaving my headlights on.  Later on, after the snow was cleared, I tried the ignition only to find a dead battery, and me stalled on the side of the mountain, holding up traffic in an avalanche zone.  I ended up having to petition random strangers in the line of cars for a pair of jumper cables and a boost.  That was a little embarrassing.  Still, it was a learning adventure!

So by now you probably really think I'm crazy, especially if I claim that the Salmo-Creston is among my favourite stretches of road ever, especially in the winter.  However, to put my affection for winter driving into perspective, my brother put it best this past week when he stated "Other places get snow and they say 'Oh no! Close the roads!'.  People in the Kootenays get snow and they say 'Wheeee! Look what I can do!"  Well put, brother.  Well put.


So much snow!

We've got snow!



Why having so much snow is awesome!



Something adventurous! (part 3)

We were only an estimated half hour away from our destination in biking to Cavendish when my friend Josh stopped abruptly on the road and asked "Where the heck are we? That Google-Maps app can't be right!"  We were on a red-dirt gravel road full of pot-holes in the middle of nowhere that seemed to be leading further into the middle of nowhere, PEI.  Snowie Road, I think it was called.  It was probably called that because it spent the winter buried under untouched, unplowed, untrodden snow. 

Snowie Road

"No, we are in the right place," I tried to reassure him that despite appearances that we were on a dead-end country road, we were on track to our destination.  "There should be a turn off just around the next bend."

Sure enough, around the next bend another dirt road branched off in a perpendicular direction leading the merry jaunt through the abandoned country side.  I wasn't sure whether to find it spooky or beautiful.  On one hand we were getting an up-close and personal look at the Prince Edward Island wilderness complete with the legendary red soil.  On the other hand, it was nearing 4 o'clock and I wasn't sure what kind of wildlife was on the island and when said wildlife observed dinner time.

By this time I was walking my bike more than I was riding it.  My tailbone was so sore from the four hours of bike riding that sitting on the bike was nearly impossible without bringing tears to my eyes.  Still, the promise on the Google-maps app on my phone was clear: Cavendish was only a few more hills away.

When we finally pulled into town there was no cheering, no victory dance, no frolicking in joy.  There was just this sense of palpable relief, exhaustion and pain.  It had taken us just over 4 hours to make a trip that Google-maps had promised would be only 2 hours long.  Never trust Google-maps on a bicycle.  I looked at Josh and whispered to him, shamefully, "I don't think I can make the return trip."  Another 40 kilometers back?  Heck no, not happening.

Our first stop in Cavendish was at the visitor information centre, to find a shuttle that could drive us back to Charlottetown with our bikes.  Then we checked out Green Gables, Avonlea village and finally, the beach.   I had made the trip in faith, being told that Cavendish was an absolutely beautiful and magical place.  Was it worth the pain?  Here are the pictures; you be the judge: (click to view full-sized photo)



Green Gables!!!

Avonlea Village.  It was so adorable, and free to walk around!

On the other side of those dunes on the far left is the lovely beach.



The beach at Cavendish. 
Fun fact: the constant washing of the waves over the dirt washes out the
rust in the soil, removing the red colour.

I wasn't the only one enjoying the beach.



So peaceful....

The landscape was absolutely stunning, even without mountains.

 I am happy to say that despite all the pain, tears and inconveniences that accompanied the adventure, I am glad we took the chance to visit Cavendish.  I got to see an incredible landscape, become intimately acquainted with Prince Edward Island, visit a place that inspire my favourite books, and lived a story that I can now tell on my blog.  But best of all?  I got bragging rights!  That's right 40 kilometres in one day, I biked across and entire Canadian province!

The "I made it! (even though I can't feel my legs anymore)" photo.

Something wild

Take note: This is not a coyote!

"I want to see a coyote!"  That's what he said. Rob had travelled to Canada from the UK and was on Cape Breton Island to satisfy his burning desire to see Canadian wildlife.   Personally, I didn't get the appeal. Coyotes aren't that exciting. They basically look like medium-sized mutt dogs with fluffy tails: all cute a domestic looking, until you realize that they are totally willing to eat you. 

In fact, I nearly got hunted by a coyote pack once.  I was at a silent retreat centre outside of Banff, AB and decided to go for a walk in the  woods, despite warnings from my fellow retreaters about coyotes nearby.  Sure enough, as I walked down the trail I could hear them howling in the distance - howling: their technique for freaking out and cornering their prey.  The sound of their howls was getting closer and closer so I bent down to pick up a stick.  Wanting to make sure of its sturdiness I whacked it against a tree.  Part of it splintered off with a resounding and satisfying crack, like a gunshot.  I grinned.  FUN!  Within minutes I was armed with two sticks, my weapons of mass destruction as I rampaged through the woods whamming sticks against tree and breaking whatever dead wood I could.  The silent retreat was no longer so silent; but after about 25 minutes of my joyful cacophony the howls were miles away.  Score: me 1; coyotes 0.

So yeah, Canadian wildlife: cute but deadly.  I knew I had to correct some assumptions about Canadian wildlife when Rob began to wish aloud that we would come upon a moose on our hike on the Cabot Trail.  OK, I can understand the appeal of seeing a moose: they are majestic; they are stately; they have awesome racks.  But if there is an animal that I would rate near the top of animal I wouldn't want to surprise in the open bush, moose definitely is near the top of that list.  They can be quite territorial, and their huge size is going to give them the advantage in any fight.  Trust me, if you get in a fight with an angry moose, the moose will win.

Despite my fervent desire to not confront a moose, at the end of the day Rob's wish was the one that came true.  We were coming back from our last hike on the Skyview Trail as the last bits of dusk trailed away into darkness. We were only about 10 minutes from the car when we came upon other tourists stalled on the side of the pathway.  Peering carefully into the darkness, we were able to ascertain what had them hesitating: a huge black shadow moving along the side of the path, not even 10 yards away.  A moose.  Having just spent the last hour educating Rob on the dangers of moose in the Canadian wild, there was a palpable sense of nervousness in the air at being so close to such an amazing creature.  "Well," I reasoned, "there are a lot of us, and it's used to tourists and knows we are here, so if we move slowly and give it as much distance as possible, everything should be fine." And if everything wasn't fine then I was already mentally working on a contingency plan to use trees and my trail-fellows as moose speed bumps. Slowly, ever so slowly we tiptoed single file on the far side of the path, passing within 5 yards of the moose then continuing on to our car for the trip back to the hostel.

"Ok, that was a bit too close for comfort!"  I declared to my hiking partners.  This time even Rob agreed.



Skyview Trail, shortly before we ran into the moose.

Bonus blog content!

My rating system for how nervous Canadian wildlife makes me, from lowest to highest:

• Beavers - sharp teeth, but shy.
• Porcupines - sharp quills, but shy.
• Skunks - Shy, but stinky!  Also doesn't mind living in more urban environments, so beware.
• Raccoons - These can be vicious, but they won't pick a fight with you unless they feel threatened.  They will tear your cat to shreds without hesitation though.
• Black bears - Usually more scared of you than you are of them.  Make noise, don't get between a mother and her cubs and you should be okay.  Only need to be scared if there is a lack of food in the woods, or the bear is acclimated to take food from human sources, like garbage cans.
• Cougars - They will stalk you, but usually just because they are curious.  Only need to be scared if there is a lack of food in the woods or if you are short.
• Coyotes - They may be small, but they hunt in packs and will not hesitate to hunt you if they are hungry and you are alone.
• Moose - They are not scared of you.  They are territorial.  They will gore and trample you.
• Grizzly bears - They are not scared of you. They are territorial. They will maul your face off.
• Wolves - They will hunt you.  They will eat you.  They will corner and devour you until only your bones are left.

Something that depends on the weather

Bottomless Lake in Fundy National Park, NB

There are a lot of stereotypes about Canadians that exist that are not necessarily true, like that we are all lumberjacks, it is winter all year round, we live in igloos, and that we smother everything in maple syrup.  (I admit in regards to the last one I am a bad Canadian - I have a hard time even liking the stuff. *ducks the Canadian equivalent of rotten tomatoes*)   If there is one stereotype that holds true though it is that Canadians love to talk about the weather.  I heard on the radio a couple years ago that Canadians have the most weather networks on television compared to any other country in the world.  To be fair though, if Canadians are a little over-obsessed with the weather it is because we have a whole darn lot of it.  When a country's landmass is the 2nd biggest in the world and borders three different oceans, there is bound to be a bit of a variable in our meteorological forecast from place to place.


Canadians not only have a different perspective on the weather, we also have different seasons.  When I lived in Calgary, someone summarized the different seasons quite aptly: "in Canada there are only two seasons.  Winter, and construction."  *bum, bum, bum, ding*  ... ... ...  Okay, the joke might lack a bit of ooompf when I type it out, BUT travel across Canada and you'll realize how true those words are.  In Halifax every other street in the downtown had to divert the traffic to do road maintenance. In Montreal there were almost as many skyscraper construction apparatuses that I don't know the name of as there were skyscrapers.  In Ottawa I was awoken from my sweet sleep every morning at 8am to the sound of exploding dynamite from the construction site next door!  I live in BC and every time I want to do a roadtrip during the summer months, I have to allot time to be stopped in the middle of nowhere so highways can be expanded and maintained.  Construction is such a big deal in Canada from March to October that it might as well have its own season!

In all seriousness though, seasons do differ quite a bit from one end of the country to the other.  For instance let us consider the season of autumn (a word that I much prefer to the synonymous "fall").  Autumn in my hometown in central BC will last 1-2 months - what I would say is the national average.  In contrast, autumn in Calgary typically lasts 2 weeks: one moment the leaves are yellow and then before you can blink they are off the trees!  On the far opposite end of the spectrum, coastal BC will still be experiencing what the rest of the country considers autumn weather in the middle of January.  Lucky bastards.  Speaking of winter, just last year those of us living in ski resort towns in British Columbia watched the television in downright envy as those on the eastern side of the country got all of our snow. If Canada was a little shorter across the middle I'm sure we would have gone over with our bobcats and shovels to borrow a few buckets of the white fluffy powder! Temperature has no consistency either. When I moved back to British Columbia after living in Calgary for 7 years I almost laughed aloud when I heard people complaining about the -15 degrees Celsius weather we had for a couple of weeks.  In Calgary that was average.  Likewise I also had to hold the giggles back when I visited the land of eternal temperate temperatures - Vancouver - in May one year and heard everyone comment at how hot it was at 21 degrees Celsius!  Again, for perspective, this past summer my hometown had a few days where it was officially the hottest place on the planet at 43 degrees Celsius. 

Anyways, if there is a point I have to make it is that weather in Canada has no consistency, thus it neutrally makes for one of the most dynamic topics of conversation.  Likewise, an experience of the weather is one thing that all Canadians have in common, despite our geographical differences, so the topic binds us together and unites us as a people.

This conversation also allows me to illustrate my disappointment, frustration and resignation that although I travelled to Eastern Canada to experience the splendour of their fall colours, which were due to arrive near the end of September, the weather did not cooperate.  The summer months had the resilience of an energizer bunny, effectively causing autumn to be a full month late!!!! Grrrrrrr.....

The National Art Gallery in Ottawa

Alas, I'm afraid my pictures of an Eastern Canadian autumn are few and far between.

*sad face, cue violin music*

Something through a different pair of eyes

My Carpool Entourage

"I have one rule in the car," I announce to my carpooling entourage, "if you see something that you want to take a picture of, tell me to stop!"

I'm pretty sure that was not the rule they were expecting.  After all, how many drivers grant their passengers even marginal backseat driving privileges?  But we were in Nova Scotia, driving along the Cabot Trail, one of the most notoriously beautiful places in Canada - and I was a photophile (my new made up word of the day) - so there really was every good reason to stop as often as possible to take pictures!    Not to mention that my entourage consisted of three men crammed together in the back seat of a compact car and another woman in the passenger seat beside me, so stopping as often as possible to allow the men to stretch their legs was our version of an act of mercy.  At  one point we stopped at a gas station before we entered the national park and the attendant's eyes almost bugged out of his face.  "Where.....How did you manage to fit all of you in that tiny car?!"  Ah, it was a bit snug, but it sure is a great way to get to know each other.  Especially when you frequently unintentionally lengthen the trip by getting "temporarily misplaced" ("We are never lost, only temporarily misplaced." ~ my female passenger that day)

Speaking of temporary misplacement, have I ever mentioned how amazing the internet is?  At one point on my eastern Canada trip an older woman looked at me and all the other people around her holding our phones and electronic devices, doing who knows what mysterious voodoo on them, and declared in a loud scoffing voice "I don't know where all you young people would be without those gadgets."  I simply looked back at her and said, very sincerely, "Neither do I."  My phone with its 5GB of wireless data and its Google maps app are the only things that kept me on my whole trip from getting hopelessly lost.  People I met on my trip would always go overboard in trying to explain directions and it felt so gratifying when I could simply pat my coat pocket and say "It's okay, I got a phone and Google maps, I'm good."  I was a cool navigational badass!

Travelling with strangers in the car can really open your eyes to re-examining experiences through a new pair of eyes.  A couple from Toronto was in the car with us and they got so excited when they saw fog on the road!  "Seriously... fog?" I thought to myself as they were oooing and aaahing over it.  Fog was a fact of life in the mountains of BC, and almost an everyday occurrence in the winter months.  But these two people were seriously excited to be driving through condensed water vapors.  They were also thrilled to be driving up a twisty-turny mountain road in the middle of a mostly-coniferous forest and seeing little tiny waterfalls dripping on the side of the road from mountain run-off water, which is again another everyday experience for us BC-folk.  "I am soooo glad you are driving!"  They exclaimed, as I obviously had experience handling hazards that they would never encounter on their big-city streets.

This is why a photo-stop house rule for the car makes sense. On that trip through the mountains of Cape Breton Island, I found myself taking pleasure in other people's simple enjoyment for things that I would typically take for granted.  I am sure that if I had been travelling alone I would have given very little thought to them, but because I was with these people I took notice of and appreciated something even as basic as fog. Things that I would have normally have passed by without thinking about were suddenly worth time and attention and maybe even a polaroid moment.  The everyday experience became something precious and worthy of celebration.

One of those roadside polaroid moments for me.

Something about Three Rivers

"I've booked three nights in Trois-Rivières."  After days of dragging my feet over settling on the next step of my travel plans, I was ready to divulge them to my fellow German traveller in my hostel in Quebec City.

She wrinkled her nose in disdain.  "I think maybe that is too long." She said in reply.  "There is nothing to do there; you will be so boring [sic]."

Most people would be put off by an endorsement like that.  Me?  I immediately felt exhilarated at the challenge!  I think it is part of my mental programming.  If someone tells me how I should think about something or what I should do my first instinct is to do the exact opposite.  So, nothing to do in Trois-Rivières?  Excellent!  I will make my own things to do.  Nothing to see?  There are always things to see!  They just might require a little more delving and searching.  I might never see this person again, but privately I resolved to have a wonderful time in Trois-Rivières just to prove her wrong.  What a rebel I am.

"Why do you want to go to Trois-Rivières?" Another traveller asked, baffled by my choice in tourist destinations.

"Well, I remember hearing its name when I was in social studies in school, but I don't remember why it was important."  Okay, my reasoning needed a bit of work, I admit, but it was true nonetheless.  I wanted to go to Trois-Rivières because something in my very dimwitted memory reminded me that it was a very important place for Canadian history.  I couldn't remember any of the details except the name, so I wanted to use my trip to remind me in a tangible way why the city was important, despite how trivial the other travellers around me seemed to considered it.

The first day in Trois-Rivières I decided to do a tour of the downtown sites.  I was done in a couple of hours. There was a boardwalk by the Saint Lawrence river that was quite beautiful, a few sculptures scattered around a park, a bunch of information panels written only in French (though later on I found I could scan a code with my cell-phone to get the English version of a lot of them), a free-to-use piano in a public city square and a giant light-brite in the local library (!!!!!).  A large portion of the city had been destroyed in a massive fire near the beginning of the 20th century so there were very few old ornate buildings left in place.  With so little tangible history present it was hard to believe that this was the 2nd oldest settlement in Canada, right behind Quebec City, and the site of a very important battle during the American Revolution that was key in preventing Canada from being absorbed as another state in the new United States of America.   Rather than finding a proud bustling metropolis befitting of such an important status, what I found was an endearing sleepy little city who embraced its history like a true Canadian: modestly.

And yet, despite the lack of tourist-centric organized activities that I probably wouldn't have paid for anyways because I'm so cheap, I found myself deeply captivated by the place.  Borrowing a bike from the hostel was free so I spent hours exploring the city.  I found out that the reason that it is called Trois-Rivières, Three Rivers in English, is because the river that feeds into the Saint Lawrence splits into three right before reaching it due to islands that interrupt the flow.  Those same islands gave me photo opportunities like this one that I took with my iPhone:

I also had the opportunity to go to a very key pilgrimage site for the Roman Catholic church, Notre-Dame-du-Cap, with a local francophone.  We attended a French mass where I didn't understand a single word, except "etre le premier".  Wracking my memory on what place in the Bible has the phrase "to be first", I correctly identified the passage of scripture that the homilist was using for his address. I managed to impress myself with that feat, I admit.  The grounds of the basilica were so beautiful that two days later I would revisit them to spend more time there.

There were a bunch of other things I did in the city while I was there, but what stands out in my memory is just how relaxing I found my time in the small city.  Without so many touristy things demanding my attention I was able to slow down and soak in the experience of this place called Trois-Rivières.  The food was super cheap too, so I bought groceries and ate like a queen during my entire visit there.  Despite the negative endorsement from my fellow travellers, I had found what I  already expected to be true: that the excitement and interest of a place is what you bring to it, not what it can bring to you.

Something about the Canadian dream

"There is no Canadian dream." I read this statement yesterday in an article quoting Ben Carson as he praised American exceptionalism in his bid for Republican presidential nomination in the States.  I almost snorted out loud in the coffee shop where I was perusing my facebook page.  What ignorance!  Anyone who makes that sort of statement obviously does not know Canadians very well.  This sort of person makes the assumption that Canadians prefer mediocrity, when the fact is the Canadians just happen to value modesty as much as we also value our own awesomeness.  Canadians have a lot of pride and a lot of aspirations - we just don't talk about or flaunt them as the Americans do.  There is a Canadian dream, but it is not something advertised or blown out of proportion.  It is something lived and something that is an innate part of us.  Anyone who spends any time living with Canadians will begin to get the sense of how this dream permeates our society.

In fact, recently in a write-up for a women's conference that was discussing the different experiences a woman faces through the decades of her life, I took a moment to ponder the Canadian dream:

"When I was a teenager I put a lot of thought into my 20s. To me they were golden years of opportunity where I would be able to figure out the mysteries of life, the universe and everything. I would decide what I wanted to do as a career, get a college or university education then use that as the foundation to launch the rest of my life. I figured I would get into a serious relationship around the age of 21, maybe get married at 23 or 25. I would graduate from university in my early 20s, be set for life and start raising a family. It was the typical all-Canadian dream."

The thing that stands out for me in my summary of what the typical all-Canadian dream looks like, is that it focuses on education, on family and on finding a productive and meaningful place in society.  These focuses differ some from the American dream, and these differences become apparent when one starts to compare prevalent political ideologies between the two nations.  Proud socialists, Canadians value education - which is why we promote and fund our public schools and Colleges better than the States. We value family which is why we have universal health care, subsidies for parents with children, and paid maternity leave.  We value finding a productive and meaningful place in society, which is why topics like environment & climate change, science, and social justice have been such huge themes in our recent elections.  American politics, and consequently the American dream, focuses more on capitalism - the opportunity to gain wealth through free enterprise.  Canadians value this too, but possessions and financial success are often mere by-products of our larger dream.  And this approach has worked for us, as this article from 2014 bluntly states.

So, Mr. Carson, I am afraid you are dearly wrong.  Canadians have a dream.  It is a wonderful dream and it is a modest dream. It is a dynamic dream that we are not afraid to shape our society around.

Something to be remembered

Once when I was in my early 20s and my sister was still in her early teens she came to visit me in Calgary.  I had all sorts of exciting shenanigans planned for her visit, but knowing we couldn't possibly fit them all in I decided to give her the opportunity to choose an activity from among them.

"So, what would you rather do this weekend - ," I asked, "go to the museum or zoo?" Yeah, my shenanigans were that exciting. I had a secret wager with myself that she was going to pick the zoo, after all - cute, cuddly animals that you don't have the opportunity to see every day - how could you not?  In truth I really wanted to go to the museum but I seriously doubted how a feature exhibit on the building the trans-Pacific railway could possibly stimulate a 14 year old brain.  My sister surprised me though when she picked the museum, almost without a second thought.  Oh yeah, I remembered, we are sisters.  Strange things like preferring museums to zoos must run in the family.

When I was travelling in Eastern Canada I had the opportunity to visit my fair share of museums. In fact, at one point in Montreal I reached a point of museum overload when we visited the Place de Calliere, Planetarium, Biodome, Musee de Marguerite Bouregoys, Centre d'Histoire de Montreal, Bank of Montreal money museum, Chateau Ramezay and a few other places I have already forgotten all in the matter of a couple days!  My journal entry from October 1st reads, "Yesterday: too many museums."  That's it.  That's all the energy I had to write!  My brain was so fried that by the time we got to the Musee des Hospitaliares I was doing that thing where you read a sentence, get halfway through and realize you don't have any clue what it is saying so you start reading from the beginning again only to get 1/2 a dozen words in before you realize you can't even recall what they were, so you start again and the vicious cycle repeats itself.  I ended up giving up at that point.  Apparently there can be too much of a good thing.  The good news is: I recovered.  By Ottawa I was prepared to visit museums again, only no more than one a day this time.

The thing about going to so many museums is that you begin to see how they have a tendency to be all the same.  Take First Nations exhibits, for example.  By the end of my trip I was getting seriously annoyed with them.  I voice my frustrations in my journal:

"Canadians seem to think that this is our history, but the truth is that it is us trying to record the vestiges of a dying culture because our ancestors nearly stamped them out of existence.  How many museums have I entered that have told me what the First Nations did, what they wore, how they survived, but have never told me who they were? There is almost never a story of a person, of a soul that represents the soul of his or her people, and that is the real tragedy of these museum exhibits.  History remains a white man thing - with the remnants of the civilizations we have conquered displayed in our halls."

There were exhibits, however, that offered a fresh perspective that I really appreciated.  In the Canadian Museum of History I went through an exhibit entitled "1867: Rebellion and Confederation."  This exhibit told the story of the context surrounding Canada's confederation, about how the American revolution to the south had pushed up the British loyalists who had a superiority complex over the French Acadians and the only reason these two cultures completely at odds with each other came together was because they were worried about being annexed by the States. I found it extraordinarily amusing that the origin of Canadian identity was in the desire to NOT be American.  Despite our close ties to the US today, this one fact remains a pivotal expression of Canadian identity.

What I really pulled away from the 1867 exhibit, however, was the fact that when Canada became a nation, it was in fact not a nation.  People in Canada still thought about themselves as British subjects.  They still carried British Passports.  It wasn't until World War I, as I learned later at the Canadian War Museum, that Canada was recognized on an international stage as its own unique country.  It was because of World War I that Canadians decided to take over their own international affairs, that we began to take pride in saying that we were Canadian and began to seek out symbols of our cultural identity. 

A few days ago we celebrated November 11th, Remembrance Day here in Canada.  That day I had the opportunity to help my church serve coffee and hot chocolate to the hundreds of people who came to participate in the ceremonial process of remembrance and I did not hesitate to take a few pictures.  War is a tragedy.  It has a huge toll in the cost of life that it demands.  And yet, I feel so grateful for those soldiers and people who have represented Canada in war.  At the museums I visited on my trip I learned that the adversity of war is what helped birth our national identity.  We are not a warlike people; we have not sought conflict as the Americans have throughout their revolutionary history.  But it is through the fires of war that we have discovered who we are and what we believe in as a nation.  It is because of the sacrifices of these people that we can have pride in being Canadian.

For that, soldiers and veterans, I thank you.

Something political (part 3)

Who knew an election could be so lively? I had never been anywhere public to watch the national election results before, but the hum of energy in the theatre where I am sitting is tangible.  For a moment I regret that I am unable to hear the election coverage commentators over the myriad of conversationally engaged people around me.  But then I realize that not only can I still see the important stuff on the screen, but the ebb and flow of voices from the theatre are providing their own unique commentary. 



IPhone selfie with my popcorn!

The NDP* get a seat! They cheer! *New Democratic Party

The Liberals get a seat!  They cheer!

The Conservatives get a seat!  They boo!

A Conservative cabinet member gets upset!  The Liberal party wins the seat.  They cheer! LOUDLY.

An NDP member gets upset.  The Liberal party wins the seat.  There is a mixture of both disappointment and acceptance.

I take this all in and feel a tickling sense of amusement.  Just by the responses alone it is not hard to tell that I have found myself in the midst of a young vocal university crowd, a demographic that is notorious for being left-leaning.  I suppose it should be no surprise, as the cinema is in the middle of the University district of Toronto, but the unabashed vocal engagement of the crowd gives the sense that we are just as engaged in the results of the federal election as we would be in an epic Canadian hockey game! 

~Cue hockey announcer voice~ "That Liberal came out of nowhere, straight down centre ice.  It's a breakaway!  He shoots, he scores!  It's a Conservative upset!!!!" ~Cue massive fan cheering~ 

Olivia Chow, widow of the late Jack Layton former leader of the NDP, gets defeated.  Suddenly the deafening hum of voices in the theatre go silent all at once.  You could hear a pin drop.  The silence speaks volumes and you feel how stunned, sad and full of respect the population of the theatre is for her.  Coverage switches to show Olivia giving her concession speech and the crowd around me remains silent, listening intently for the duration of the speech.  Then the election results resume, and just as though someone flipped a switch, suddenly the voices pick up where they left off, robust as ever, drowning out the sounds of the television announcers.

It's only about 20 minutes after the polls in Ontario and Quebec when a message flashes across the screen LIBERAL VICTORY.  The voices in the theatre falter and I can hear the announcer on tv saying, "The analysts are calling it a Liberal victory.  The Liberals will be the ones to lead our next government."  Confusion rolls through the stunned theatre.  "What?" I can hear a dozen voices saying, "Isn't it way to soon to be calling this?"  After all, only a handful of ballot boxes in our most populous provinces have been counted.  I myself am skeptical and think that the guy sitting next to me is summarizing the situation perfectly, "Well, they better hope they are right or this is going to be the biggest embarrassment of Canadian news reporting history!"

It turns out the analysts were not wrong.  As the night goes on, the red Liberal wave sweeping the nation become apparent.  It is not even an hour later when the announcers update their announcements.  It will be a Liberal majority and the Conservative party will form the official opposition.  I find myself breathing a sigh of relief at the word "majority".  To me this means that the new government can be effective.  They  don't have to get caught up in trying to negotiate between warring factions, and they will have a chance to prove themselves, 4 years to be exact.  In the meantime Canadians won't have to return to the polls right away and we will have a chance to observe and see whether these politicians will live up to their promises.

The Canadian government before the 2015 election:
Conservatives 166  NDP 103  Liberals 34  Bloc Quebecois 4  Green 1

The Canadian government after the 2015 election:
Liberals 184  Conservatives 99  NDP 44  Bloc Quebecois 10  Green 1
(This is a massive change in government.  The Liberals gained 150 new seats).

As the night concluded and I went back to the hostel dorm to watch the after-election commentary on the internet until 3 in the morning (for the first time on my trip missing my BC time zone which meant I would have gone to sleep at midnight instead of 3am), I had only one thought go through my head:

A new government, a Blue Jays win, and a Star Wars trailer - it was truly a great night to be Canadian!


Canadian Parliament Buildings framed by the Canadian Museum of History

 



Something political (part 2)

It's already dark as I step out from the Toronto subway.  There is a hum of energy around as people walk down the sidewalks with purpose.  This is probably typical of Toronto, but for a moment I allow myself the illusion that they are headed to their destination with the same purpose I have: to imbibe on a refreshment of their choice (in my case popcorn, oh what a party animal I am!) and watch the election results.  I orient myself on my phone using the Google maps app and set out in the direction of the cinema.

There is a greeter at the door when I arrive.  I mention I am there to watch the election results and a big grin lights up her face.  "Welcome!" she enthuses as she quickly gives me an orientation on where I can buy my popcorn.  Popcorn: very important for an election night - I am glad that she recognizes this.  I walk to the popcorn line, which is empty.  I've arrived over 20 minutes early, being the keener I am, so that is no surprise.  I look at the sign on the cashier's desk.

MEDIUM POPCORN

$3.38

(The number of seats in the House of Commons)

 

FREE REFILLS!

 

Excellent, this night was starting out excellent!  I swiftly purchase my popcorn, yes extra butter please, and then I go pick out a seat in the sparsely populated theatre.

 

I am surprised to see that the screen is already on and election results are rolling in from the Maritimes.  A few of the ridings are being slightly schizophrenic, tumbling between a Liberal/Conservative identity crisis, but otherwise the Atlantic provinces are looking decidedly red.

 

Very little happens for the next 40 minutes.  I watch the commentary that the political analysts are providing on the tv as the Maritimes decide that they are going to be 100% Liberal after all.  The seats in the theatre around me fill up. A dull roar from the hum of voices surrounds me, it is becoming increasingly difficult to hear.  On my left a young couple settles down in their seats and pulls out their refreshments, a clear liquid in a soda bottle that is definitely not water and plastic cups to drink it with.  We chat a bit about our anticipations for the evening and he offers me something to drink from the bottle.  Nah, I'm happy with my popcorn, but thank you.  On my right three young girls of east Asian descent who look like they are barely out of high school and old enough to vote sit down.  They chatter loudly, enjoying their own refreshments, holding pieces of paper in their hands. I glance at the piece of paper "Election Bingo" it says.  HOLD THE PHONE! The cinema is giving out Election Bingo and I didn't get one?!  I briefly consider whether it is worth it getting up to hunt down my own piece of paper, but then I consider the swelling theatre population and decide the effort isn't worth it.  I like my seat too much.  Maybe I'll get one when I go for a popcorn refill.

 

The stage is set, my first helping of popcorn is almost finished, and there are only 10 seconds before the polls in Quebec and Ontario close.

 

"10 - 9 - 8 - 7 - 6 - 5 - 4 - 3 - 2 - 1."  The dissonant hum of voices unites into a singularity of anticipation and cheers echo as the announcer on the tv declares that the polls are now closed.  Now things get interesting.

 

Part 3 is up!