You'll find some pictures from my 3 day Caribbean adventure here
http://www.flickr.com/photos/16622261@N07/sets/72157612952926248/
Enjoy!
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
A good day
On a small hill overlooking Antigua’s capital, St. John's, is the Cathedral that bears this attractive town’s name. It has stood here like a beacon, since it was constructed in 1720.
Ringed by a brick wall, I found a half opened wrought iron gate, and passed into an old cemetery. I stopped and reflected on the tablets that graced tombstones and crypts. Many had been weathered by time and were unreadable. I tried to imagined what history…what stories lay beneath the ground.
Who was Elizabeth Bendall, who died at 36 years of age? Laid next to her was Hopefor Bendall, who, presumably her son, died in 1728 at the age of 15.
On another I couldn’t make out the name, but what I could see read like this:
“He was home in London at the home of his parents in May
and died in Antigua in August, 1739.”
Before the days of telephone, and email, and 747s, I imagined that this man’s visit to see his parents was probably the last he spoke to them. And the journey from London to the Caribbean at the time must have been an arduous one.
I was moved by another that read:
This monument is dedicated to the memory of a tender and affectionate husband,
James Henry Wall, who died in 1795.
Further down was the inscription for a James George Wall, who died at 22 months and 8 days.
It ended with this:
By a truly grieved and feeling wife and mother
Anna Wall.
I hoped that through her pain, Mrs. Wall was able to find delight in the time she had with her young son and husband.
I walked into the church. The inside was made entirely of wood. It was simple, yet majestic. Pews spilled into every corner of this large church.
I left, and ambled down the hill to the harbour. Royal Caribbean’s, Serenade of the Seas, had just arrived, and was disgorging hundreds of tourists. This was unfortunate, because now I had to dodge the touts offering taxis and selling tours of the island.
Wanting to escape the throng of tourists, I walked a few blocks away from the port. Here the streets were lucky to see any pavement. The houses were run down, and roosters (and two goats) wandered freely.
I passed one man, who placed a closed fist to his chest and said, “peace.” It was here that I saw the smallest house I’ve ever seen. It measured no bigger than eight feet by eight feet. Despite its size it was home for someone.
I kept looking down the small streets and couldn’t help but notice the contrast of the neighbourhood with the cruise ship that loomed, a short distance away.
I stopped to take a photo of an aged man sitting on the steps of an old house. Behind him was a sign that read, Ancient Mariner. I wondered if he was once an old mariner himself. I continued past a small barber shop. Some might call it a shack. There was room for just one chair.
“Would you like a cut,” the barber called out!
I removed my cap to expose my bald head.
“Maybe, I can just clean up the edges,”
“Thanks, but my wife usually takes care of that.”
Around a corner, two guys sat on the steps of a small, bright green house.
“Are you from the ship,” they asked?
It was a question I was asked often. This wasn’t a part of town that many tourists visited, but what I enjoy about ambling through areas like this, is that it’s real. It’s not made up, or pretend. What you see—warts and all—is what you get. It reminds us that beautiful places, such as Antigua, and Fiji, where I’ve been before, are not all about exclusive beaches and fancy hotels. There are people, without much, who are just trying to eke out a living.
“We call this the ghetto,” one of the guys jokingly told me. “Uptown is where all the shops are. We don’t have a lot of money, but we’re still happy.”
I hoped I sounded sincere.
Inside the house, a television could be heard. With a smile, they told me they were watching Obama’s inauguration.
“It’s a good day, a good day,” one said.
They didn’t have to explain what they meant. I knew that a black man in the White House, ever how distant, gave these guys hope. We reached out and touched fists, then placed our hand on our chest, and said goodbye.
It’s a good day, indeed, I thought to myself as I wandered uptown and grabbed a bite to eat.
Ringed by a brick wall, I found a half opened wrought iron gate, and passed into an old cemetery. I stopped and reflected on the tablets that graced tombstones and crypts. Many had been weathered by time and were unreadable. I tried to imagined what history…what stories lay beneath the ground.
Who was Elizabeth Bendall, who died at 36 years of age? Laid next to her was Hopefor Bendall, who, presumably her son, died in 1728 at the age of 15.
On another I couldn’t make out the name, but what I could see read like this:
“He was home in London at the home of his parents in May
and died in Antigua in August, 1739.”
Before the days of telephone, and email, and 747s, I imagined that this man’s visit to see his parents was probably the last he spoke to them. And the journey from London to the Caribbean at the time must have been an arduous one.
I was moved by another that read:
This monument is dedicated to the memory of a tender and affectionate husband,
James Henry Wall, who died in 1795.
Further down was the inscription for a James George Wall, who died at 22 months and 8 days.
It ended with this:
By a truly grieved and feeling wife and mother
Anna Wall.
I hoped that through her pain, Mrs. Wall was able to find delight in the time she had with her young son and husband.
I walked into the church. The inside was made entirely of wood. It was simple, yet majestic. Pews spilled into every corner of this large church.
I left, and ambled down the hill to the harbour. Royal Caribbean’s, Serenade of the Seas, had just arrived, and was disgorging hundreds of tourists. This was unfortunate, because now I had to dodge the touts offering taxis and selling tours of the island.
Wanting to escape the throng of tourists, I walked a few blocks away from the port. Here the streets were lucky to see any pavement. The houses were run down, and roosters (and two goats) wandered freely.
I passed one man, who placed a closed fist to his chest and said, “peace.” It was here that I saw the smallest house I’ve ever seen. It measured no bigger than eight feet by eight feet. Despite its size it was home for someone.
I kept looking down the small streets and couldn’t help but notice the contrast of the neighbourhood with the cruise ship that loomed, a short distance away.
I stopped to take a photo of an aged man sitting on the steps of an old house. Behind him was a sign that read, Ancient Mariner. I wondered if he was once an old mariner himself. I continued past a small barber shop. Some might call it a shack. There was room for just one chair.
“Would you like a cut,” the barber called out!
I removed my cap to expose my bald head.
“Maybe, I can just clean up the edges,”
“Thanks, but my wife usually takes care of that.”
Around a corner, two guys sat on the steps of a small, bright green house.
“Are you from the ship,” they asked?
It was a question I was asked often. This wasn’t a part of town that many tourists visited, but what I enjoy about ambling through areas like this, is that it’s real. It’s not made up, or pretend. What you see—warts and all—is what you get. It reminds us that beautiful places, such as Antigua, and Fiji, where I’ve been before, are not all about exclusive beaches and fancy hotels. There are people, without much, who are just trying to eke out a living.
“We call this the ghetto,” one of the guys jokingly told me. “Uptown is where all the shops are. We don’t have a lot of money, but we’re still happy.”
I hoped I sounded sincere.
Inside the house, a television could be heard. With a smile, they told me they were watching Obama’s inauguration.
“It’s a good day, a good day,” one said.
They didn’t have to explain what they meant. I knew that a black man in the White House, ever how distant, gave these guys hope. We reached out and touched fists, then placed our hand on our chest, and said goodbye.
It’s a good day, indeed, I thought to myself as I wandered uptown and grabbed a bite to eat.
Monday, January 19, 2009
A hundred shades of green
Sometimes White Man Walking needs to give his feet a rest, and grab a set of wheels. That’s what I did in Trinidad. From the airport I had a vague idea where my guesthouse was. The guy at the car rental desk put it like this.
“Take this road until you come to the first street, and then turn left. Continue through the first set of lights and then when you come to the second set of lights, turn left. Follow that road for a while, then turn left, then right, then left again, and right again…when you get there just ask around they will know…”
Right, (or was that left) I got it.
I carried on in the general direction, making it past the second set of lights. Now I needed to find Water Pipe Road, which for some reason the map on the guesthouse’s website made it seem like a major road…I found out later it isn’t.
After stopping people for directions, and driving through narrow roadways and alleys and going around in circles…literally…I decided to call the guesthouse.
“Where are you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you pass the supermarket? If you passed the supermarket, you’ve gone too far.”
Now, this wasn’t overly helpful, because I passed the supermarket several times, and didn’t really no if the guesthouse was on “this” side of the supermarket or “that” side.
“No problem,” I said, "I’ll find it." After some more asking, I stumbled, quite accidentally onto Water Pipe Road.
After dropping my bags, showering (yes, before driving I always shower...the car handles better with a clean driver), and taking an hour nap, I ventured out again, trying to figure out the directions, so I would know how to get back.
I drove through the capital, Port of Spain trying to find something interesting to see, but I couldn’t find anything, so instead I found the road that led to Maracas Beach, about 15 km north of the city. (have you ever wondered why the capital of a former British colony has the name, Port of Spain? Of course you haven’t). Maracas is Trinidad’s most popular beach, although this island is not endowed with many beaches. Those are all found on the island of Tobago.
Once I left the city, the road narrowed, and twisted like a serpent. The rain forest, with its hundred shades of green climbed down the mountainside. In some places heavy rains had deposited trees and mud and rocks onto the road. If dodging trees wasn’t enough, I passed oncoming vehicles around sharp bends with care. Driving on the left side of the road made it even more of a sport, as I tried to judge the distance between me and the passing car. Many times I caught myself cringing and sucking in my stomach so as not to hit, or get hit.
At times, the vegetation cleared and teased me with dramatic views. Down below, waves crashed against small rocky outcrops. It looked as if I could ride the lush, green carpet of hillside all the way down to the ocean.
I stopped at a roadside stand, where two Rastafarians were selling oranges, coconuts, sugar cane, and some hand-made crafts. One introduced himself as Edwin Hendricks.
“Like Jimmy,” he said with a laugh, emphasizing his last name. I got it, but I reckon Jimmy Hendricks probably had better teeth and played better guitar than this fellow.
He asked if I have ever tried sugar cane. I haven’t.
He pulled two stalks from the pile, shaved off the bark, and then instructed me on how to get the juice from the white, fibrous stick. I bit down with my back teeth, and freed the sweet liquid that had been trapped in the cane. His friend then offered me a small orange. It was tart, yet delicious and refreshing.
Edwin asked if I wanted to buy a maracas. Crafted from dried calabash, and filled with some seeds, he had a small collection of these simple instruments.
“Two for 100 TT Dollars,” he said.
“What if I only want one?”
“Then it’s 50 TT Dollars,” he exclaimed!
I should have guessed.
“My son will like this,” I told him as I handed over the money.
After choosing my new treasure, Edmond reached out to my hand with a closed fist. He then placed his hand on his heart. His friend did the same. And with that, I jumped back in my car, waved, and then headed down the hill to Maracas Beach.
At one end of the small bay rested a fleet of wooden fishing boats, coloured in varying hues. One man was mending a net, while his colleagues sought shelter under a palm tree close by.
I walked out on a narrow breakwater, where a man was fishing. I asked him if he catches much. He opened his small cooler and showed me his catch. “It’s pretty easy to catch fish, but it’s still fun,” he said, as he turned and cast his line. Less than a minute later, a rather unlucky fish was tossed into the cooler.
I found a little stall selling Bake and Shark, which I later learned was a culinary must. It started with a flat piece of dough that was dropped into a sizzling vat of oil. Then two pieces of fish, dipped in flour, were also placed in the oil. After a few minutes, and like magic, out came a fluffy round piece of bread, which was cut in half to slide the fish in. I finished it off by adding some spicy sauces, cabbage and diced cucumber. There was an explosion of tastes, as I bit into the sandwich.
The next day someone asked if I had the Bake and Shark at Maracas Beach.
Indeed, I did!
“Take this road until you come to the first street, and then turn left. Continue through the first set of lights and then when you come to the second set of lights, turn left. Follow that road for a while, then turn left, then right, then left again, and right again…when you get there just ask around they will know…”
Right, (or was that left) I got it.
I carried on in the general direction, making it past the second set of lights. Now I needed to find Water Pipe Road, which for some reason the map on the guesthouse’s website made it seem like a major road…I found out later it isn’t.
After stopping people for directions, and driving through narrow roadways and alleys and going around in circles…literally…I decided to call the guesthouse.
“Where are you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you pass the supermarket? If you passed the supermarket, you’ve gone too far.”
Now, this wasn’t overly helpful, because I passed the supermarket several times, and didn’t really no if the guesthouse was on “this” side of the supermarket or “that” side.
“No problem,” I said, "I’ll find it." After some more asking, I stumbled, quite accidentally onto Water Pipe Road.
After dropping my bags, showering (yes, before driving I always shower...the car handles better with a clean driver), and taking an hour nap, I ventured out again, trying to figure out the directions, so I would know how to get back.
I drove through the capital, Port of Spain trying to find something interesting to see, but I couldn’t find anything, so instead I found the road that led to Maracas Beach, about 15 km north of the city. (have you ever wondered why the capital of a former British colony has the name, Port of Spain? Of course you haven’t). Maracas is Trinidad’s most popular beach, although this island is not endowed with many beaches. Those are all found on the island of Tobago.
Once I left the city, the road narrowed, and twisted like a serpent. The rain forest, with its hundred shades of green climbed down the mountainside. In some places heavy rains had deposited trees and mud and rocks onto the road. If dodging trees wasn’t enough, I passed oncoming vehicles around sharp bends with care. Driving on the left side of the road made it even more of a sport, as I tried to judge the distance between me and the passing car. Many times I caught myself cringing and sucking in my stomach so as not to hit, or get hit.
At times, the vegetation cleared and teased me with dramatic views. Down below, waves crashed against small rocky outcrops. It looked as if I could ride the lush, green carpet of hillside all the way down to the ocean.
I stopped at a roadside stand, where two Rastafarians were selling oranges, coconuts, sugar cane, and some hand-made crafts. One introduced himself as Edwin Hendricks.
“Like Jimmy,” he said with a laugh, emphasizing his last name. I got it, but I reckon Jimmy Hendricks probably had better teeth and played better guitar than this fellow.
He asked if I have ever tried sugar cane. I haven’t.
He pulled two stalks from the pile, shaved off the bark, and then instructed me on how to get the juice from the white, fibrous stick. I bit down with my back teeth, and freed the sweet liquid that had been trapped in the cane. His friend then offered me a small orange. It was tart, yet delicious and refreshing.
Edwin asked if I wanted to buy a maracas. Crafted from dried calabash, and filled with some seeds, he had a small collection of these simple instruments.
“Two for 100 TT Dollars,” he said.
“What if I only want one?”
“Then it’s 50 TT Dollars,” he exclaimed!
I should have guessed.
“My son will like this,” I told him as I handed over the money.
After choosing my new treasure, Edmond reached out to my hand with a closed fist. He then placed his hand on his heart. His friend did the same. And with that, I jumped back in my car, waved, and then headed down the hill to Maracas Beach.
At one end of the small bay rested a fleet of wooden fishing boats, coloured in varying hues. One man was mending a net, while his colleagues sought shelter under a palm tree close by.
I walked out on a narrow breakwater, where a man was fishing. I asked him if he catches much. He opened his small cooler and showed me his catch. “It’s pretty easy to catch fish, but it’s still fun,” he said, as he turned and cast his line. Less than a minute later, a rather unlucky fish was tossed into the cooler.
I found a little stall selling Bake and Shark, which I later learned was a culinary must. It started with a flat piece of dough that was dropped into a sizzling vat of oil. Then two pieces of fish, dipped in flour, were also placed in the oil. After a few minutes, and like magic, out came a fluffy round piece of bread, which was cut in half to slide the fish in. I finished it off by adding some spicy sauces, cabbage and diced cucumber. There was an explosion of tastes, as I bit into the sandwich.
The next day someone asked if I had the Bake and Shark at Maracas Beach.
Indeed, I did!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Sitting next to the Jolly Green Giant
Somewhere over eastern British Columbia, the flight attendant leans over to one of the passengers and says there's a Chinook in Calgary. Today's temperature was 10 degrees and if the television is to be believed, it will soar to 16 tomorrow. Something is messed up when one day it can be -10 and then 10 above the next. Someone's messing with the thermostat, I think. Kind of like my colleagues at work. One minute they're cold, next minute they're hot. They come into my office and start playing with the thermostat. What they don't know is that the building is whacked, so that the thermostat in my office really controls the copy room, or lunch room.
After my flight to Calgary, I returned to the same aircraft, an Air Canada Embraer 190--a sweet little ride--for my trip to Toronto, where I'll connect to a Carribean Airlines service to Trinidad. I settle into my seat at 25F, and as most of the passengers are on board, I'm glad for the spare seat next to me. Then this man plunks a bag down on the that empty seat. Some women would probably find this man's rugged looks attractive. But to me, he has just invaded my space. His curly, greying blond hair masks his true age. He looked like a surf dude from yester-year. Actually he looked a lot like Jesus. I don't know if Jesus was in to surfing, although I imagine him hanging 10, while Moses was parting the Red Sea.
This guy's hands were so big, I bet he could have snapped a surfboard in half. Have you ever sat beside someone on a plane or a bus that when they sit down they fall into the seat, sending a tsunami wave of energy to the people sitting next to them? It was like the Jolly Green Giant had sat next to me, but instead of pulling out a bag of peas or corn, he reached into his bag and unwrapped a smelly burger from Harvey's.
The airplane started smelling like a cheap hamburger joint, which wouldn't be a problem if we were at a some stinkin' hamburger joint, but we weren't. We were in a small confined space, and the smell of onions and pickles, mixed with ketchup and grease turned my stomach.
He then pulled out a bag of peanuts and started breaking the shells, which landed all over his lap and the floor. I swear if I had hair, I would still be picking peanut shells from my head. Did he think he was at a ball game. I half expected him to crack open a can of Bud.
And what's with people cracking open peanut shells. I thought it was just squirrels and chipmunks that did that.
What's almost as bad as sitting next to someone munching on a greasy burger, is sitting behind someone who thinks that no one is sitting behind them. There was a couple in front of me, who after selecting a movie to watch reclined their seat, so their head was in my lap. Unless it's a night flight federal regulation should prohibit seats from reclining. Did they think they were sitting in their living room. They would also move around in their seats, and send the drink glass and soda can flying (fortunately both were empty).
I amused myself by watching some foul-mouthed comedian on the TV monitor. Despite the limitations in this guy's vocabulary (I wonder if his mother knew how he talked), I caught myself laughing out loud a few times.
I thought I would listen to something more wholesome, so I clicked on the Celine Dion CD. I tired after one song. There was a time when I couldn't get enough of Celine, but I've matured. Despite pressing every button on the inflight entertainment system, I couldn't get rid of her. "My Heart Will go On," still rings through my ears.
A snowstorm greeted us as we landed in Toronto. If only I had a moment to go for a walk as the fluffy white flakes swirled down. But alas, I had a flight to Trinidad to catch.
After my flight to Calgary, I returned to the same aircraft, an Air Canada Embraer 190--a sweet little ride--for my trip to Toronto, where I'll connect to a Carribean Airlines service to Trinidad. I settle into my seat at 25F, and as most of the passengers are on board, I'm glad for the spare seat next to me. Then this man plunks a bag down on the that empty seat. Some women would probably find this man's rugged looks attractive. But to me, he has just invaded my space. His curly, greying blond hair masks his true age. He looked like a surf dude from yester-year. Actually he looked a lot like Jesus. I don't know if Jesus was in to surfing, although I imagine him hanging 10, while Moses was parting the Red Sea.
This guy's hands were so big, I bet he could have snapped a surfboard in half. Have you ever sat beside someone on a plane or a bus that when they sit down they fall into the seat, sending a tsunami wave of energy to the people sitting next to them? It was like the Jolly Green Giant had sat next to me, but instead of pulling out a bag of peas or corn, he reached into his bag and unwrapped a smelly burger from Harvey's.
The airplane started smelling like a cheap hamburger joint, which wouldn't be a problem if we were at a some stinkin' hamburger joint, but we weren't. We were in a small confined space, and the smell of onions and pickles, mixed with ketchup and grease turned my stomach.
He then pulled out a bag of peanuts and started breaking the shells, which landed all over his lap and the floor. I swear if I had hair, I would still be picking peanut shells from my head. Did he think he was at a ball game. I half expected him to crack open a can of Bud.
And what's with people cracking open peanut shells. I thought it was just squirrels and chipmunks that did that.
What's almost as bad as sitting next to someone munching on a greasy burger, is sitting behind someone who thinks that no one is sitting behind them. There was a couple in front of me, who after selecting a movie to watch reclined their seat, so their head was in my lap. Unless it's a night flight federal regulation should prohibit seats from reclining. Did they think they were sitting in their living room. They would also move around in their seats, and send the drink glass and soda can flying (fortunately both were empty).
I amused myself by watching some foul-mouthed comedian on the TV monitor. Despite the limitations in this guy's vocabulary (I wonder if his mother knew how he talked), I caught myself laughing out loud a few times.
I thought I would listen to something more wholesome, so I clicked on the Celine Dion CD. I tired after one song. There was a time when I couldn't get enough of Celine, but I've matured. Despite pressing every button on the inflight entertainment system, I couldn't get rid of her. "My Heart Will go On," still rings through my ears.
A snowstorm greeted us as we landed in Toronto. If only I had a moment to go for a walk as the fluffy white flakes swirled down. But alas, I had a flight to Trinidad to catch.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Airline TV Commercials
The other day I came across a Virgin Atlantic TV commercial, marking their 25th anniversary. It's a great ad, especially with many references from the 1980s .
You can view the ad here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KS_6HHQ7jOA
I then searched for some other great airline commercials, which I have linked below. Some very creative spots. I have also included two non-airline spots, which are excellent.
Jet Blue - Just like Dad
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BqJ0_2Xd3gI&feature=related
You can view the ad here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KS_6HHQ7jOA
I then searched for some other great airline commercials, which I have linked below. Some very creative spots. I have also included two non-airline spots, which are excellent.
Jet Blue - Just like Dad
Southwest Airlines
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDdboVGJPfQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDdboVGJPfQ
Virgin Atlantic
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bon-qNCnePY&feature=related
Emirates
I first saw this ad a few years ago, and it is still one of my favourites
European TV commercial
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bon-qNCnePY&feature=related
Emirates
Aerolinas Argentina - winner of best airline commercial (Cannes 2004)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BI8MgYUsen4
1Timehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BI8MgYUsen4
I first saw this ad a few years ago, and it is still one of my favourites
European TV commercial
Don't Wake the Star
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Bill Gates creeated a spel chek, so yous it!
I was at the doctor's office today. It wasn't my general practitioner, but rather one of these medical clinics. I have the Ebola virus, but don't worry for me...I'll be fine.
While waiting, I noticed four small posters taped to the walls throughout the office that read:
While waiting, I noticed four small posters taped to the walls throughout the office that read:
Caution
Wetfloor
Be
Carefull
Please
Wetfloor
Be
Carefull
Please
Do I really want to be treated by a doctor whose staff are careless and lazy? I can forgive such a sign if it were in Blagovescensk or Nay Pyi Taw or Ougadougou, or even Yokadouma, but in Vancouver such poor spelling is inexcusable.
While technology has unfortunately turned us into lazy and poor spellers, there is no excuse for not using one's computer program's spell check. A few seconds of time would have revealed the errors contained on this sign. But even worse, I suppose, is that no one in the office has any care to correct the offending signage.
Speaking of doctors, one of my inquisitive colleagues no longer asks me about my doctor's appointments, after she probed much further than she probably liked a few years ago. The conversation went something like this:
Colleague: So, why are you off tomorrow?
Me: Oh, I have a doctor's appointment
Colleague: What's the appointment for?
Me: Well, some doctor is going to shove a camera up my ass and take a look around. Wanna come take a look? Invite some friends, bring some popcorn, we can all watch my rectum and colon on the big TV monitor.
Now when I tell her I have a doctor's appointment, she never asks why.
While technology has unfortunately turned us into lazy and poor spellers, there is no excuse for not using one's computer program's spell check. A few seconds of time would have revealed the errors contained on this sign. But even worse, I suppose, is that no one in the office has any care to correct the offending signage.
Speaking of doctors, one of my inquisitive colleagues no longer asks me about my doctor's appointments, after she probed much further than she probably liked a few years ago. The conversation went something like this:
Colleague: So, why are you off tomorrow?
Me: Oh, I have a doctor's appointment
Colleague: What's the appointment for?
Me: Well, some doctor is going to shove a camera up my ass and take a look around. Wanna come take a look? Invite some friends, bring some popcorn, we can all watch my rectum and colon on the big TV monitor.
Now when I tell her I have a doctor's appointment, she never asks why.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Being somewhere without actually being there
After my previous post, where I listed a number of my dreams, including going on a Canucks road trip to Chicago, Boston, or New York, my friend Anna game me added inspiration by creating a picture of her husband, K2, and me on the side of a building in Times Square.Almost as good as being there.
A crappy afternoon
Yesterday, my four month old son was covered in pooh. Literally, from head to toe. He had a massive explosion that even his kevlar diapers couldn't stop. When I carried him upstairs to get changed I had no idea what I was dealing with. I noticed some wetness on the front of his blue shirt, but I thought that it was simply a collection of drool.
I laid him on the change table and my other son, Jack, looked at me and said, "Daddy, what's that on your shirt." A patch of light brown goo had mysteriously appeared on my white shirt. What I initially thought was a pool of drool on my son's shirt was indeed poo. It's amazing that the force of this explosive natural phenomenon could send crap up his front and backside at the same time.
I didn't know where to start. I unsnapped the bottom of his "onesie" (if you aren't sure what a onesie is, then call one of your friends who has children), and this runny, pumpkin-hued liquid gushed out from around his diaper. I had never seen anything like it.
Jack ran into the bathroom where my wife, Carrie, was relaxing in the tub, and announced, "Max pooed...mommy Max pooed."
He then ran back into his brother's room, where he watched me assess the situation. First, I got some safety tape and cordoned off a six foot perimeter around the offending child, who laid there as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I stood for a while trying to figure out how I was going to take off the poo-soaked shirt without getting crap all over his head.
With little choice, I had to pull the shirt over his head. Jack then ran and told his mother that Max had poo on his head. My wife almost drowned laughing about the crappy predicament that I found myself in.
I looked to my youngest son, who now had poo over his entire body, and apologized. I don't know what I was apologizing for, but it was the only thing I could say to him at that moment. He just looked at me with those big blue eyes and smiled. I guess there's a reason we don't remember things in our first few years of life.
Jack kept up the play by play, and relayed the progress to his mother. She must have thought that I was able to handle everything, because she didn't make any effort to extricate herself from the bath.
I got out the jumbo box of wipes and started to clean his body. The wipes did little but spread the gooey liquid around. I started gagging, so I took him outside and hosed him off. That didn't work, so I strapped him to his change table, at which time Jack yelled, "mommy, now there's poo on the straps." I filled his little bath tub and threw him in, but as if on cue he started peeing. Oh well, what's a little pee in the water when your body is covered in crap.
By now, Carrie had climbed out of her bath and was now smiling as I was trying to take control of this shitty situation. The bath did wonders and Max was sparkling clean. A few hours later while feeding Max, my wife turned to me and matter-of-factly said, "I think you missed some, there's still some poo on his ear."
I laid him on the change table and my other son, Jack, looked at me and said, "Daddy, what's that on your shirt." A patch of light brown goo had mysteriously appeared on my white shirt. What I initially thought was a pool of drool on my son's shirt was indeed poo. It's amazing that the force of this explosive natural phenomenon could send crap up his front and backside at the same time.
I didn't know where to start. I unsnapped the bottom of his "onesie" (if you aren't sure what a onesie is, then call one of your friends who has children), and this runny, pumpkin-hued liquid gushed out from around his diaper. I had never seen anything like it.
Jack ran into the bathroom where my wife, Carrie, was relaxing in the tub, and announced, "Max pooed...mommy Max pooed."
He then ran back into his brother's room, where he watched me assess the situation. First, I got some safety tape and cordoned off a six foot perimeter around the offending child, who laid there as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I stood for a while trying to figure out how I was going to take off the poo-soaked shirt without getting crap all over his head.
With little choice, I had to pull the shirt over his head. Jack then ran and told his mother that Max had poo on his head. My wife almost drowned laughing about the crappy predicament that I found myself in.
I looked to my youngest son, who now had poo over his entire body, and apologized. I don't know what I was apologizing for, but it was the only thing I could say to him at that moment. He just looked at me with those big blue eyes and smiled. I guess there's a reason we don't remember things in our first few years of life.
Jack kept up the play by play, and relayed the progress to his mother. She must have thought that I was able to handle everything, because she didn't make any effort to extricate herself from the bath.
I got out the jumbo box of wipes and started to clean his body. The wipes did little but spread the gooey liquid around. I started gagging, so I took him outside and hosed him off. That didn't work, so I strapped him to his change table, at which time Jack yelled, "mommy, now there's poo on the straps." I filled his little bath tub and threw him in, but as if on cue he started peeing. Oh well, what's a little pee in the water when your body is covered in crap.
By now, Carrie had climbed out of her bath and was now smiling as I was trying to take control of this shitty situation. The bath did wonders and Max was sparkling clean. A few hours later while feeding Max, my wife turned to me and matter-of-factly said, "I think you missed some, there's still some poo on his ear."
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Overcoming Brick Walls
I'm reading Randy Pausch's, The Last Lecture. It's one of those, makes you think kind of books, and one that should be required reading.For those of you not familiar, Pausch was an accomplished professor at Carnegie Mellon University. In 2006, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. On July 25, 2008 Pausch died. That in itself isn't overly significant. More than 30,000 Americans die each year from this hideous disease. It's the legacy that Pausch left that is significant.
In September 2007, he captivated an audience of 400 people at Carnegie Mellon University, when he delivered the Last Lecture called, Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams. The lecture became a phenomenon, as millions of people around the world viewed his lecture on the web.
Throughout the book, Pausch uses a brick wall as a metaphor to describe the challenges we face in our lives. He writes: "The brick walls are there to stop the people who don't want it badly enough." and "They [brick walls] give us a chance to show how badly we want something."
Throughout our lives, each of us face brick walls. Sometimes we want something bad enough that we climb over that wall. Other times, we look back and regret that we didn't want something bad enough. If only we had done things differently. The point isn't to dwell on those "if onlys". The world isn't a perfect place and neither are we, but if we can learn from those experiences, we'll be ready when we come to the next wall.
Pausch talks a lot about childhood dreams, and as the title of the lecture suggests, really achieving those dreams. As I was reading the book, I began to realize that I didn't really have a whole lot of childhood dreams to reflect upon. I remember telling my parents that I would move out when I was 18, spend six Christmases by myself (whatever that meant), and then get married when I was 24. Not surprising, my life didn't play out like that. It was my parents that moved out when I was 20, and I didn't get married until I was 28. And when I was younger, I thought I wanted to be a lawyer. I used to pace when I was talking, especially when debating and arguing different points of view. I would also act as an arbiter in some of my parent's disputes. My mother said I would make a good lawyer. But when I hit that brick wall, I suppose I didn't want it bad enough.
I asked my wife if she had any childhood dreams. And apart from marrying some handsome, brilliant and charming man, she rattled off three--swim on the Great Barrier Reef, jump out of an airplane, and go on safari in Africa. She's done two of the three...she still yearns to see the world's biggest zoo.
Not long ago, my three-year old son, Jack, said to me, "Daddy, I would like to go to Paris one day." I'm sure he's not alone, but it is refreshing to see such a young boy with big, worldly dreams.
While I don't have a lot of childhood dreams, I surely have many as an adult. And maybe that's how it should be, as our life experiences show us opportunities that we didn't know existed as children.
So, I started making a list. In a sense sharing your dreams with others can make you feel vulnerable, but vulnerability is one brick in that big wall. It keeps forcing us to ask the question, how badly do we want it?
In no particular order, here are my dreams
- take Jack to Paris, so he can ride the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower
- there isn't a place in this world that I wouldn't want to visit, but high on my list are India, Pakistan, South Africa, Morocco, Vietnam, and Granada, Nicaragua. My wife and I attempted to get to the latter, but circumstance foiled us, and despite a great story to share about spending the night in an impoverished Nicaraguan village, I still yearn to get to Granada.
- walk from Nazareth to Bethlehem
- take my parents to a part of Europe (Venice, Vienna, Prague) they might not normally go to. A reminder there's more to Europe than Britain.
- show my in-laws some vibrant cities in East Asia
- explore New York City with my family, and take my sons on the big Toys R Us Ferris wheel in Times Square
- Visit New York, or Chicago, or Boston to watch a Vancouver Canucks game with my wife, or father-in-law, or my friend, K2
- drive across the United States
- go to the World Hockey Championships in Europe
- raise $1,000,000 for charity
- have an article published in National Geographic or National Geographic Traveler (even better would be for my wife's photos to accompany the story)
- interview Robert Milton, who is the Chairman, President, and CEO of ACE Aviation Holdings, the parent group of Air Canada (I had been chasing an interview with Mr. Milton for a few years, but kept running into brick walls)
- work in the aviation industry, whether for an airline or airport
A link to the Last Lecture website
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Yes, Carrie, there is a Santa Claus!
Last night the jolly old fellow from the North Pole paid a visit to our house. I know this because the cookies that Jack left out for him, and the carrot for his reindeer were gone. The only evidence that something had once been on the plate were the crumbs. And he left some gifts under the tree. Oh, and the deer droppings in our backyard.
Somewhat surprised by such an audacious request, Santa looked to me with one of those, "well Dad, how are we going to get out of this one," looks.
About a month ago, we all went to see Santa at the Mall. He asked Jack what he wanted for Christmas. A video game was the response. This sounded like a reasonable request. Santa then looked over to me and asked what I wanted. I told him I would like a book. Again, a very reasonable request. Then he turned to Carrie and asked what she would like Santa to bring her. She paused for a minute, and then said she would like a trip to Hawaii.
Somewhat surprised by such an audacious request, Santa looked to me with one of those, "well Dad, how are we going to get out of this one," looks."I'll see what I can do," Santa said, after a moment's hesitation.
Maybe Carrie had some doubts about whether Santa could really deliver, so she decided to test him. Never underestimate Santa, I say.
On Christmas morning we each got a gift from Santa. A video game for Jack, a book for Dadddy, and a trip to Hawaii for Mommy. It was at that moment, when Carrie unwrapped that last gift, that all doubt had been erased.
With apologies to Francis Pharcellus Church--Yes, Carrie, there is a Santa Claus!
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Leave Santa alone
So, some do-gooders in Germany want to get rid of Santa Claus. They claim he has commercialized Christmas. Right! And Santa is also responsible for the current world economic downturn, and much of the scourge and deprivation that afflicts our world.The jolly, bespectacled, old man, who wears a red coat trimmed with white fur, and calls the North Pole home is an easy target. Much easier than taking responsibility for our own actions. It's not Christmas that has become commercialized, it's our society.
If we're going to blame Santa, then let's blame Jack O' Lantern (by the way, does anyone know what Jack Lantern's middle name is?) and the Easter Bunny, and St. Valentine, and teachers, too, because they are surely responsible for the commercialization of going back to school. And good God if we're talking commercialization have you been to the Vatican and seen all the kitchy (and tacky) souvenirs they sell to the masses.
Every year we here how the true spirit of Christmas (as if Christmas has been around since...well, since Christ) is being ruined by our indulgent pursuits. I disagree.
In my 37 years of life, Christmas has changed very little. It's still a time for family to come together, and for most to share a big meal. It's a time when Santa stocks me up with socks and underwear. And those who go to church and celebrate the birth of Jesus, do so gladly (you know he wasn't really born in December) . They even get to catch up with the C&Es. They're the ones who only go to church at Christmas and Easter.
Sure, some people go a little crazy. Like the lady on the news who says she usually spends $1,000 on each of her four kids at Christmas. But her ridiculous behaviour isn't exclusive to Christmas, I'm sure.
Hands off the old man! Santa isn't to blame. If we feel society has become too commercialized, then maybe it's time we looked at our own behaviour. In the meantime, tomorrow night not a creature will stir in our house, not even a mouse. We'll hang our stockings by the chimney (how does Santa deal with gas fireplaces?). And we'll have oranges (I'm not fond of sugar plums) dancing in our heads. Since I don't hear anything when I'm asleep, my wife will have to open the shutters and pull up the sash, when she hears the clatter on our lawn, announcing the arrival of Saint Nick and his herd of reindeer. And in the morning we'll race downstairs and see what magic he has brought.
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!
Thursday, December 18, 2008
The Kindness of Strangers
The Kindness of Strangers, published in 2003 by Lonely Planet Publications, is a compilation of travel stories proving that even the most hardened traveler will come to rely on the helping hand of a stranger.
In that book, seasoned travel writer, Don George, wrote:
"In 25 years of wandering the world, I have learned two things: the first is that when you travel, at some point you will find yourself out of money, out of food, unable to find a room, lost in a big city, or on a remote trail stranded in the middle of nowhere. The second is that someone will miraculously emerge to take care of you--to lend you money, feed you, put you up for the night, lead you to where you want to go. Whatever the situation, dramatic or mundane, some stranger will save you."
While reading the book, I couldn’t help but think of my own brushes with the kindness of strangers. While exploring the world, I have never run out of money, or food, but like most people, I have come to rely on strangers to help me on my way.
Fifteen years ago (longer ago than I care to remember), I visited France, as part of a two-month, trek through Europe. I had always heard, and still do for that matter, that the French are rude and not overly helpful towards tourists. But my experience on a cool, windy day, in a small French town shattered those pre-conceptions.
We were the only ones to step off the train in Arras. It was eerily quiet. Our intended destination was Vimy, a sacred place where thousands of Canadians lost their lives in the First World War. From the station, our guidebook suggested that Vimy was a “healthy hike”. But not knowing if the author was a marathon walker or a couch potato, we weren’t quite sure what a “healthy hike” was.
We wandered around to the front of the station, which looked just as deserted. The only clue to our destination was a small guidepost, which pointed in one direction. After a few minutes, we waved a car down, and I tried to summon all the French I had learned in school, which wasn’t much. There were three people in the car, and we spoke to a man, probably in his forties, who was sitting in the passenger seat.
He told us his father would return and drive us to the Memorial. Minutes later we found ourselves in the little car, zipping along a country road. The older man chatted away in French, and I in English. It all seemed to make sense. I could tell that he was grateful for the sacrifice made by Canadians. When we got to Vimy, he arranged with another visitor to drive us back.
The day ended when a couple from North Vancouver drove us back to the train station and offered us a bottle of wine, one of many they had purchased on their travels through France.
While on the same trip, we found ourselves in St. Goar, a quaint village on the banks of the Rhein River. The youth hostel was located in an old castle. Most castles were built in difficult to reach places. This particular one was perched on a cliff-side, high above the river. As we searched for the trail that would lead us up the mountain, a man stopped his car and asked if we were going to the youth hostel. “Jump in,” he said, “I’ll drive you up there.” The man lived in St. Goar and always felt sorry that visitors had to walk up to the hostel, so whenever if he sees someone, he offers them a ride.
In early 1998, Carrie and I were in Seoul, Korea. Carrie’s health was deteriorating, and we spent many days at the hospital seeing doctors. On one occasion, she had to have a number of tests, all of which had to be paid for in advance. Each wasn’t overly costly, but after several of these tests, my wallet had been emptied of cash. Turned out the hospital didn’t accept credit cards, so I went to a bank machine in hospital lobby. At the time, only a handful of ATMs in Seoul accepted foreign bank cards. And this wasn’t one of them.
Another test was ordered, but now I had to show my empty wallet to the nurse. It was difficult communicating to the nurse. How did I tell her that I had money, it was just in the bank not my wallet. Then an older woman, who seemed like a hospital volunteer, overheard our conversation and offered to pay for the tests. She gave me her bank account number and I assured her we would return the money in a few days time.
The next day, I was telling my students about this woman’s kind gesture. At the end of the class one of the students offered to make the deposit for me. I gave her the money and the next day she gave me a receipt from the bank.
A number of years ago, my wife and I were in Sydney, Australia (not to be confused with Sydney, Nova Scotia, where the odd wayward traveler some times ends up instead). It was late afternoon and we left the downtown area for my brother-in-law’s house, north of the city. We had the vaguest idea where we were going. Instead of taking the bus all the way, we decided to take a small ferry part way before connecting to a bus.
After some uncertainty as to which bus to take and where to get off, we arrived at a shopping centre, which served as a hub for city buses. We weren’t far from Bob’s house, but we still needed to find the right route to his house.
I should point out that it was May (late Fall in Australia), and I was the only person wandering around in shorts and a t-shirt. A cool rain had already started falling. And everyone we asked had no idea how to get to Bob’s house. Finally, after looking lost and being told to wait at various stops, a bus driver came to us and said, “My shift is over, you can hop on my bus.” He was delivering his bus to the depot, but on his way he made a detour, and dropped us off in front of Bob’s house. When we told my sister-in-law, a native Australian, about the kind bus driver that just dropped us off. She didn’t believe our story. “Our bus drivers aren’t that nice,” she said.” Well Des, there’s at least one.
When Carrie and I visited Iran, a work colleague arranged for her brother, who we had never met before, to tour us around Tehran. In the morning, Fereidoon arrived with a bouquet of flowers for Carrie. We climbed in his car, and drove through the crowded and chaotic streets of Tehran. Then we visited his parent’s home in the northern part of the city, where Iranian hospitality included copious amounts of tea, oranges, and cake. After filling our stomachs we headed off to Fereidoon’s home, about 40 minutes west of the Tehran, where his wife had prepared a gastronomic feast.
After a lazy afternoon, sharing stories with Fereidoon and his family, he drove us back into the city. The following morning we left Iran for a few days and traveled to Sharjah, one of the United Arab Emirates. We spent a few days here before returning to Iran and visiting Esfahan and Shiraz. Fereidoon offered to pick up our plane tickets and hotel reservations from the tour company, and would meet us at the airport around noon on the day we were scheduled to arrive back in Tehran.
As it turned out our morning flight from Sharjah to Iran had been cancelled. We were booked on on another flight, but it wouldn’t leave until 11:00 pm that night. This delay meant that we would miss our flight to Esfahan, and Fereidoon still had our tickets for the rest of our trip. He assured us by telephone that someone would be waiting for us at the airport with the tickets. When we arrived in Tehran, at 1:00 am, Fereidoon was there. But how and when would we get to Esfahan. Turned out Fereidoon had arranged an overnight taxi. And so we found ourselves racing across the Iranian desert in the middle of the night.
After a few days ambling through two of Iran's most beautiful and historic cities, we flew back to Tehran, where Fereidoon was again waiting. This time he took us back to his parent’s place where we stayed the night and enjoyed dinner with what seemed like family. Fereidoon's kindness and that of his family were a reflection of Persian hospitality.
Before arriving in Bucharest, my impressions of Romania were largely negative ones.
From all the stories I heard, I half expected to be attacked by roving gangs of gypsy kids at the airport. Instead, I was offered a ride into the city. I was looking for the bus outside the terminal and asked someone where the correct stop was. A man pointed to the stop a short distance away, but said that he was driving back into the city, and offered me a ride. What a pleasant introduction to Romania, as we drove into the city past wide, tree-lined boulevards.
I often reflect on these stories, and wonder if we would do the same. Would we open our homes or our wallets to someone we had never met? Would we go out of our way to drive a stranger somewhere? I like to think we would. You too must have stories of your own, when a stranger offered you a helping hand.
In that book, seasoned travel writer, Don George, wrote:
"In 25 years of wandering the world, I have learned two things: the first is that when you travel, at some point you will find yourself out of money, out of food, unable to find a room, lost in a big city, or on a remote trail stranded in the middle of nowhere. The second is that someone will miraculously emerge to take care of you--to lend you money, feed you, put you up for the night, lead you to where you want to go. Whatever the situation, dramatic or mundane, some stranger will save you."
While reading the book, I couldn’t help but think of my own brushes with the kindness of strangers. While exploring the world, I have never run out of money, or food, but like most people, I have come to rely on strangers to help me on my way.
Fifteen years ago (longer ago than I care to remember), I visited France, as part of a two-month, trek through Europe. I had always heard, and still do for that matter, that the French are rude and not overly helpful towards tourists. But my experience on a cool, windy day, in a small French town shattered those pre-conceptions.
We were the only ones to step off the train in Arras. It was eerily quiet. Our intended destination was Vimy, a sacred place where thousands of Canadians lost their lives in the First World War. From the station, our guidebook suggested that Vimy was a “healthy hike”. But not knowing if the author was a marathon walker or a couch potato, we weren’t quite sure what a “healthy hike” was.
We wandered around to the front of the station, which looked just as deserted. The only clue to our destination was a small guidepost, which pointed in one direction. After a few minutes, we waved a car down, and I tried to summon all the French I had learned in school, which wasn’t much. There were three people in the car, and we spoke to a man, probably in his forties, who was sitting in the passenger seat.
He told us his father would return and drive us to the Memorial. Minutes later we found ourselves in the little car, zipping along a country road. The older man chatted away in French, and I in English. It all seemed to make sense. I could tell that he was grateful for the sacrifice made by Canadians. When we got to Vimy, he arranged with another visitor to drive us back.
The day ended when a couple from North Vancouver drove us back to the train station and offered us a bottle of wine, one of many they had purchased on their travels through France.
While on the same trip, we found ourselves in St. Goar, a quaint village on the banks of the Rhein River. The youth hostel was located in an old castle. Most castles were built in difficult to reach places. This particular one was perched on a cliff-side, high above the river. As we searched for the trail that would lead us up the mountain, a man stopped his car and asked if we were going to the youth hostel. “Jump in,” he said, “I’ll drive you up there.” The man lived in St. Goar and always felt sorry that visitors had to walk up to the hostel, so whenever if he sees someone, he offers them a ride.
In early 1998, Carrie and I were in Seoul, Korea. Carrie’s health was deteriorating, and we spent many days at the hospital seeing doctors. On one occasion, she had to have a number of tests, all of which had to be paid for in advance. Each wasn’t overly costly, but after several of these tests, my wallet had been emptied of cash. Turned out the hospital didn’t accept credit cards, so I went to a bank machine in hospital lobby. At the time, only a handful of ATMs in Seoul accepted foreign bank cards. And this wasn’t one of them.Another test was ordered, but now I had to show my empty wallet to the nurse. It was difficult communicating to the nurse. How did I tell her that I had money, it was just in the bank not my wallet. Then an older woman, who seemed like a hospital volunteer, overheard our conversation and offered to pay for the tests. She gave me her bank account number and I assured her we would return the money in a few days time.
The next day, I was telling my students about this woman’s kind gesture. At the end of the class one of the students offered to make the deposit for me. I gave her the money and the next day she gave me a receipt from the bank.
A number of years ago, my wife and I were in Sydney, Australia (not to be confused with Sydney, Nova Scotia, where the odd wayward traveler some times ends up instead). It was late afternoon and we left the downtown area for my brother-in-law’s house, north of the city. We had the vaguest idea where we were going. Instead of taking the bus all the way, we decided to take a small ferry part way before connecting to a bus.
After some uncertainty as to which bus to take and where to get off, we arrived at a shopping centre, which served as a hub for city buses. We weren’t far from Bob’s house, but we still needed to find the right route to his house.
I should point out that it was May (late Fall in Australia), and I was the only person wandering around in shorts and a t-shirt. A cool rain had already started falling. And everyone we asked had no idea how to get to Bob’s house. Finally, after looking lost and being told to wait at various stops, a bus driver came to us and said, “My shift is over, you can hop on my bus.” He was delivering his bus to the depot, but on his way he made a detour, and dropped us off in front of Bob’s house. When we told my sister-in-law, a native Australian, about the kind bus driver that just dropped us off. She didn’t believe our story. “Our bus drivers aren’t that nice,” she said.” Well Des, there’s at least one.
When Carrie and I visited Iran, a work colleague arranged for her brother, who we had never met before, to tour us around Tehran. In the morning, Fereidoon arrived with a bouquet of flowers for Carrie. We climbed in his car, and drove through the crowded and chaotic streets of Tehran. Then we visited his parent’s home in the northern part of the city, where Iranian hospitality included copious amounts of tea, oranges, and cake. After filling our stomachs we headed off to Fereidoon’s home, about 40 minutes west of the Tehran, where his wife had prepared a gastronomic feast.
After a lazy afternoon, sharing stories with Fereidoon and his family, he drove us back into the city. The following morning we left Iran for a few days and traveled to Sharjah, one of the United Arab Emirates. We spent a few days here before returning to Iran and visiting Esfahan and Shiraz. Fereidoon offered to pick up our plane tickets and hotel reservations from the tour company, and would meet us at the airport around noon on the day we were scheduled to arrive back in Tehran.
As it turned out our morning flight from Sharjah to Iran had been cancelled. We were booked on on another flight, but it wouldn’t leave until 11:00 pm that night. This delay meant that we would miss our flight to Esfahan, and Fereidoon still had our tickets for the rest of our trip. He assured us by telephone that someone would be waiting for us at the airport with the tickets. When we arrived in Tehran, at 1:00 am, Fereidoon was there. But how and when would we get to Esfahan. Turned out Fereidoon had arranged an overnight taxi. And so we found ourselves racing across the Iranian desert in the middle of the night.
After a few days ambling through two of Iran's most beautiful and historic cities, we flew back to Tehran, where Fereidoon was again waiting. This time he took us back to his parent’s place where we stayed the night and enjoyed dinner with what seemed like family. Fereidoon's kindness and that of his family were a reflection of Persian hospitality.
Before arriving in Bucharest, my impressions of Romania were largely negative ones.From all the stories I heard, I half expected to be attacked by roving gangs of gypsy kids at the airport. Instead, I was offered a ride into the city. I was looking for the bus outside the terminal and asked someone where the correct stop was. A man pointed to the stop a short distance away, but said that he was driving back into the city, and offered me a ride. What a pleasant introduction to Romania, as we drove into the city past wide, tree-lined boulevards.
I often reflect on these stories, and wonder if we would do the same. Would we open our homes or our wallets to someone we had never met? Would we go out of our way to drive a stranger somewhere? I like to think we would. You too must have stories of your own, when a stranger offered you a helping hand.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Why we should care who Jørn Utzon was
Jørn Oberg Utzon died last month at the age of 90. If not for a brief mention in the latest issue of Maclean's magazine that piqued my interest, his name would have meant nothing to me, as I'm sure is the case for most people. Yet, he designed one of the world's most iconic buildings. And while it is arguably this city's most photographed site, Utzon never got to see the completed building. In fact, when it was opened in 1973, he wasn't invited, nor was his name mentioned.
In 1957, Utzon won the competition to design this building. It was his first competition outside his home country of Denmark. From the beginning the project was mired in political interference. And it was politics that would eventually befall Utzon, when he was forced to resign as Chief Architect in 1966, after the government stopped payment on the project.
Decades later he was brought in as the building's architect to develop a set of design principles to at as a guide for all future changes. And in 2003, was honoured with the Pritzker Prize, Architecture's highest honour.
Fifty years after Utzon won the design competition, the building was declared a World Heritage Site, and the expert evaluation report to the World Heritage Committee stated: “…it stands by itself as one of the indisputable masterpieces of human creativity, not only in the 20th century but in the history of humankind.”
It's a shame that Utzon never got to see his masterpiece, but as his son commented about his father's work, "...as its creator he just has to close his eyes to see it."
This year marks the 35th anniversary of the opening of Sydney's Opera House.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Children can be a detriment to one's health
My youngest son was screaming his face off last night (sometimes my other son does that too, but not last night, thankfully). I was holding my son while said screaming was happening, which means the sound, and not a pretty one at that, was traveling right into my ear.I thought to myself (because no one would have heard me if I vocalized the thought) that there must be some inherent danger to my health and well being, as I was forced to endure this incessant noise. Somehow noise just isn’t the best descriptor for the high-pitched sound that emanates from deep inside this screaming kid. It’s kind of like when I try to explain the snoring sound that roared and grunted from this animal-like person that I had to sleep above in an Austrian youth hostel. Sometimes there isn’t a word that can adequately describe something. This is the case with my son.
I handed my son to my wife and walked away.
“What are you doing,” she asked.
“I’m refusing unsafe work…”
Wife looks perplexed
“…it’s in my contract that I can refuse unsafe work, and according to the latest worksafe regulations your son’s (insert glare from wife)—I mean, our son’s screaming is unsafe.”
Forget listening to loud music, or working next to a jet (now, how do I get that job), or riding a jack hammer like a pogo stick, the son’s decibel crushing scream is ruining what little hearing I have left. And my wife wonders why I can’t hear her.
After pawning son off to wife, I made a hasty retreat to bed, so I could recover from the relentless ringing in my ears. (Okay, before you all think I'm shirking my fatherly duties, my wife can cheat by shoving her mamories in son's mouth for a feed, which usually keeps him quiet)
Then he started again. And making matters worse, federal regulations require a baby monitor to be installed throughout our house, which seems pointless considering someone would have to be deaf not to hear some shrieking baby, especially this one. “Would someone shut this kid up,” I wanted to yell. But I knew that no one would hear me.
I’ve now resorted to disassociation. We were at a townhouse Christmas party last weekend, and my wife was talking to our neighbour, whose very quiet baby was born one day before our shrieking son.
“So, do you hear him,” my wife asked.
What she really wanted to know was, do you hear him through the walls of our house?
Yes, sometimes,” our neighbour reluctantly offered.
“Oh yes, I can here him too,” I said, pretending not to be associated with wife and son.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Most of us have never experienced fear
Fear Grips Nation. That was the ominous sounding headline splashed across the front of The Province, with a picture of a brooding sky and a Canadian flag. In a word or two--one of the most sensationalist and ludicrous newspaper covers that I have seen in years. Apparently, 75% of Canadians are truly scared for the future of the country--so says a poll published in the paper. Let’s get real. We need to grow up and put an end to this lunacy. Yes, we find ourselves in a time of unprecedented political instability, but the sun will rise tomorrow, chickens will still lay eggs, and salmon will amazingly find their way back to the river of their birth. And Canada will forge along as it has for 141 years.
Most of us have never experienced real fear.
Fear is when you were the sole income earner, and you just lost your job, or you’re not sure where you’ll find some money to buy your kids presents at Christmas, or you don’t where you’ll sleep tonight, because you have no home to go to. Fear is when a soldier points a gun at your husband’s head and shoots him, and then rapes your daughter. Fear is when you have to walk miles through the searing heat looking for clean drinking water, or when war drives you to pack up all your belongings (which you can carry in your hands), and forces you to trek for hundreds of miles to another country, only to find yourself with thousands of others crammed into a refugee camp, uncertain if you will ever return to your home. Fear is when the Ebola virus, or some other insidious disease, sweeps through your impoverished village.
Fear is when you know you are drowning and you take one gasp of air before slipping beneath the surface. Fear is when you are trapped in a burning building, or lost and injured on a freezing hillside, or you lose your brakes while driving down a steep mountain road. Fear is when a foreign army rolls across the border and occupies your town. Fear is when you and your family are huddled in the cellar of your house waiting for the monstrous destruction of a tornado or hurricane to pass, or when you survive a massive earthquake, only to find that 100,000 of your neighbours perished and cholera is now rampant. Fear is when your son, who has found a home in the South Side Compton Crip gang, gives you a hug on his way out the door, and you wonder if it will be the last time you see him alive.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
I see money in my juice containers
"Money is not the most important thing in the world.
Love is. Fortunately, I love money!"
- author unknown
In my last post I talked about stopping to pick up a penny at the supermarket. This was met with derision by some. I use the word derision, because it sounds better than jeering laughter or ridicule. And the very fact that people laughed jeeringly probably means that it's time the government eliminated the one cent coin.
Yesterday one of my colleagues gave me a little cloth bag filled with pennies, and nickels and the odd dime (thank you, Allison). She found this bit of loose change a nuisance and was going to throw it away. Just the very sound of those words is wrong. Then she remembered that frugal Ken would appreciate some pennies. She did admit to pulling out the quarters before handing the bag over.
A discussion then ensued as to what point people would be willing to bend over and pick up a wayward coin. No one would admit to picking up a penny. Some would pick up a nickel, while others would pass up a quarter, but would stop for a dollar coin.
It was time for a little experiment. I placed a penny, nickel, and dime in a well-travelled area of the office to see how long it would take for someone to pick it up. It didn't take long for someone to pick them up. Another admitted to seeing the coins, but would only have picked it up if it were a dollar or two. We then placed a 25 cent coin in the same area, and it got picked up pretty quick, although apparently it was someone different that scooped up the quarter. It warmed my heart knowing that there are others out there who, like me, see value in money, however little it may be.
A discussion then ensued as to what point people would be willing to bend over and pick up a wayward coin. No one would admit to picking up a penny. Some would pick up a nickel, while others would pass up a quarter, but would stop for a dollar coin.
It was time for a little experiment. I placed a penny, nickel, and dime in a well-travelled area of the office to see how long it would take for someone to pick it up. It didn't take long for someone to pick them up. Another admitted to seeing the coins, but would only have picked it up if it were a dollar or two. We then placed a 25 cent coin in the same area, and it got picked up pretty quick, although apparently it was someone different that scooped up the quarter. It warmed my heart knowing that there are others out there who, like me, see value in money, however little it may be.
When I got home I opened the cloth bag and spilled the change out onto the counter. I felt like the King in the nursery rhyme Sing a Song of Sixpence, "...the King was in his counting house counting out his money."In total there was $1.93. To some, the bag was full of worthless coins, but I'm sure if I someone gave you a two dollar coin you wouldn't hesitate to throw it in your pocket.
A forest company executive looks at a stand of trees and sees money. A farmer looks across a dark brown field and sees money. I look at the juice containers on my kitchen counter and see money (which reminds me, I need to go to the bottle return depot).
By the way, if anyone else would like to give me a bag of loose change, just send me a message and I will gladly take it off your hands.
Monday, November 24, 2008
A slave to frugality
“Daddy, you’ve been ironing all day long,” exclaimed my son (the one that can talk). He was right. I had been ironing all day. When the roosters started cock-a-doodle-dooling, or whatever roosters do, I was setting up the ironing board, and I toiled over that hot steam iron for hours. It didn’t help that said son wanted me to iron his underwear for him as well.“Yes Jack, I’m a slave to your mother,” I replied, as a burst of steam rushed up into my face. Now before some of you start thinking about slave in the leather and whips kind of way, let me put it this way. It’s been so long that I’m convinced my children were (with apologies to devout Catholics) born of an immaculate conception. Although, apparently many women are turned on by a man doing the ironing and laundry. I digress.
To be fair, I’m not actually a slave to my wife, but rather a slave to frugality. The reason I had piles of ironing to do was because instead of using the dryer, which by the way next to your hair dryer and oven is one of the biggest energy hogs in your house, I have taken to hanging our laundry to dry. More often, this was exclusive to the warm days of summer, but this year I decided to keep it going.
My wife asked me yesterday what I’m saving by not using the dryer. “Well dear,” I said in that lingering way that gave me time to think of a good answer. “We’re saving three things…no actually four things…money (most important), the environment (second most important), wear and tear on our clothes (I could care less, but it sounds good), and extending the life of the dryer.” I’m sure they’ll soon be offering me the Nobel Prize, or at the very least Citizen of the Year.
“What good is extending the life of the dryer if you never use it,” my wife shot back in one of those gotcha moments.
Oh, she’ll thank me come Christmas when I have some spare change left from my frugal ways and I can buy her a few extra things at the dollar store, I thought to myself.
So what is it like living a slave to frugality? Well, while others throw pennies away I pick them up. In fact, I did just that at the supermarket yesterday. I walked past it at first, but I gave in, walked back and picked that shiny penny up and put it in my pocket. A hundred of those coppers will give me a buck. A thousand will get me ten dollars and 10,000 of those useless coins will get me…you guessed it $100. Well done. Consider that your math lesson for the day.Not that I would know, but I imagine being a slave to frugality feels the same way a crackaddict does. When he gets his hands on a rock, he's overcome by a sense of ecstasy. I feel the same way when I score a $10 a night room while on vacation, or find that coupon in the mail for Huggies diapers.
With the state of world’s finances sagging lower than some kids wear their pants, frugality is the latest buzzword. This is convenient because now when my wife complains that we have to fumble through our darkened house wearing low wattage head lamps on to save money AND the environment (I throw that in all the time, because she can’t really argue about the world her son’s will inherit), I can tell her that the IMF, WHO, NAFTA, APEC, UN, UNICEF, WWF, OECD, ABC, XYZ have all told us that in this crippling economic time we need to tighten our belts. I would tell you what all those acronyms mean, but I’ve had the power cut at our house to save money so I can't turn the computer on.
My wife’s in the bath and I can hear her hollering at me. “I’m cold!”
“Put on a sweater,” I shout back, “I’m busing recycling Max’s diapers so we can use them again.”
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I'm not as evolved as I once thought
On learning that I don’t have any wisdom teeth, someone said recently that this means I am highly evolved. I’m not sure what this means, but it sounds good. I’m sure one day they’ll put me in a museum. I imagine schoolchildren parading past me in wonder, their teacher pointing out this highly evolved 21st Century specimen.
Before someone starts making some exhibit space, I have learned, after some laborious research, that not having wisdom teeth probably has nothing to do with evolution, but rather is a genetic mutation. Somehow the former sounded so much better. Now when introducing myself, I’ll have to admit to being a mutant.
Apparently, wisdom teeth are considered vestigial, along with the appendix and the coccyx, commonly known as the tailbone. The tailbone is a remnant of a lost tail that once assisted in balance and mobility. A tail is actually present in humans for a period of four weeks during the embryonic stage.
It is believed that our third set of molars, or wisdom teeth, were once used for our early diet of coarse, rough food. And because our diet is no longer rich in foliage, our appendix no longer functions as it once did. Some doctors; however, believe that the appendix contains infection-fighting lymphoid cells, suggesting that it may play a role in our immune system.
Goose bumps in humans under stress are a vestigial reflex. They were once a function to raise the body's hair, making our ancestors appear larger and scaring off predators.
So, there you have it. Some useless information, you can share at your next cocktail party.
Before someone starts making some exhibit space, I have learned, after some laborious research, that not having wisdom teeth probably has nothing to do with evolution, but rather is a genetic mutation. Somehow the former sounded so much better. Now when introducing myself, I’ll have to admit to being a mutant.
Apparently, wisdom teeth are considered vestigial, along with the appendix and the coccyx, commonly known as the tailbone. The tailbone is a remnant of a lost tail that once assisted in balance and mobility. A tail is actually present in humans for a period of four weeks during the embryonic stage.
It is believed that our third set of molars, or wisdom teeth, were once used for our early diet of coarse, rough food. And because our diet is no longer rich in foliage, our appendix no longer functions as it once did. Some doctors; however, believe that the appendix contains infection-fighting lymphoid cells, suggesting that it may play a role in our immune system.
Goose bumps in humans under stress are a vestigial reflex. They were once a function to raise the body's hair, making our ancestors appear larger and scaring off predators.
So, there you have it. Some useless information, you can share at your next cocktail party.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
How things have changed since I was a kid
I'm reading Bill Bryson’s The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, a memoir about growing up in 1950s America. Most of Bryson’s other titles are stories of his travels that will have you laughing uproariously (that sounds like an odd word). In fact, a number of times I had to catch myself from laughing out loud while reading on the bus .Anyway, back to the Thunderbolt Kid. Bryson relates that at this time no country had ever known such prosperity. In 1951, 90 percent of American families had refrigerators, and three-quarters had washing machines, telephones, vacuum cleaners, and stoves. Today, of course we take much of these conveniences for granted.
This got me thinking about the changes that have happened in my lifetime. I was born in 1970. I try to associate with people older than I, so that I always seem young. I don't talk much to my twenty-something colleague who was born after Star Wars first came out. She doesn't know a world before email and cell phones and texting.
During most of my younger years, we only had one television in our house—it was black and white (in fact, we didn’t get a colour TV until 1986). There were 12 channels (one of them was in French) and if you wanted to change the channel, you had to walk up to the mammoth set and turn the large dial, which made a loud clicking sound. There was no such thing as 24-hour children’s programs. Cartoons were on Saturday mornings and after-school. And every Sunday at 6:00 PM, by government decree, all families would be forced to watch The Wonderful World of Disney. There were no VCRs or DVD players. Despite this, we led contented lives.
We listened to music on a record player. After some time, the automatic arm on the player would break, and we’d have to place the needle on the record by hand. Inevitably, the record would get scratched and the song would skip, or it would get stuck, and play over and over and over until the needle was lifted. When you finished listening to side A, you would turn the record over for side B. Sometimes you’d leave the record near the window and it would warp.
Then cassettes came along, and you’d sign up for the deal that gave you 100 cassettes for 99 cents. Then each month another crappy cassette would come that you would have to return before they charged you. It was such an annoyance, but you kept reminding yourself that you received 100 albums for a buck. Finally, you’d cancel your subscription. When CDs came along you’d fall for the same promotion, until you got annoyed and cancelled your subscription.
Most houses, ours included only had one bathroom. There were no such things as cell phones or portable phones. Or call waiting. There were no answering machines. If you called someone and the line was busy, you just called back later (I'm still not sure if my friend, Sean, has call waiting). People used pay phones back then. It cost 10 cents to make a call.
When I was in grade 2, I rode my bike to school by myself, and when I came home my parents would still be at work. I’d grab a fistful of Ritz crackers or a bowl of ice cream and watch the Banana Splits or some other program. Elementary school students served as crossing guards (in fact, I won the School Patrol of the year in Grade 7). And there weren’t elaborate graduation ceremonies when we left Kindergarten or Grade 7. We didn't have play dates when I was a kid. If we wanted to play with our friends they just came to our house or vice versa.
There were no superstores back then, nor super models for that matter. Stores were closed on Sundays (part of the Lord’s Day Act), and when they had a vote to see if people wanted Sunday shopping, my Dad voted against it. He didn’t see the need for stores to be open on Sundays. There were no such things as debit cards, or ATMs, so on holidays and New Year’s, lines would appear outside the banks, as people made sure they had enough cash to hold them over until the bank reopened in a few days. Once people finished at the bank, they would head over to the liquor store and stand in equally long lines to load up on drink over the holidays. The only beer available was Lucky and Old Style, or maybe I thought that, because that was the only beer my Dad ever bought. Probably because it was the cheapest. There were no mini-vans when I was growing up. Cars were made of steel, had chrome bumpers, and were so large that growing families could easily fit. They had equally large trunks. Large families would put a few of their children in the trunks to make room. There were no seatbelts, and no car seats for babies and small children.
Most movie theatres only had one screen, and the lobbies were so small that moviegoers would line up outside and down the block before the show. It was a big thing when the Odeon Theatre expanded to two screens, and even bigger when the Capitol 6 opened. Today, its six screens would pale in comparison to the 20 screen theatres that exist.
No one had mountain bikes. The best and fastest bicycles were 10-speeds. I remember the excitement when I got my first 10-speed. It was baby blue, and it was used. It didn’t matter; it was better than the old bike I had been riding that had no gears. Although some fun could be had with those bikes, because you just pushed the pedals back to apply the brakes. Skidding the tires was easy. Of course, sometimes you would wear the tire down and it would pop. I lost track of the number of times my Dad had to repair my tires.
Come autumn, we would rake (no one had leaf blowers) the leaves in our yard into a big pile, and then we would burn them. Usually it was more smoke than fire. If you looked across the city you could see plumes of smoke rising from backyards all over. Recycling hadn’t been invented. We threw cans and plastics in the garbage and burned the paper garbage, although sometimes some plastic would end up in the fire as well, sending toxic smoke into the air.
Our Halloween costumes were made by hand. Christmas decorations didn’t appear in stores in July, and Christmas trees were still called Christmas trees.
No one ever imagined that one day we would all have a personal computer in our homes (okay, maybe a few tech geeks did). I remember our first computer. I was maybe 11 or 12. It was made by Texas Instruments, and thanks to modern technology I was able to do a Google search and discovered that the computer was a TI99/4A and apparently retailed for about $700. I used it to play games, but every once in a while I would follow the manual, and program the computer, so my name scroll across the screen. Most people used typewriters. If you wanted to make a duplicate copy, you slid a piece of carbon paper between two pages. In fact, I used a typewriter (the apostrophe key was missing) all the way through university (I graduated in 1993).
Coffee was just black or white. And Starbucks was just the name of a character in the Moby Dick story. I only wish I got to walk to school uphill (both ways) in the blinding snow, as the generation before did.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
For some, Obama's dream is still just that
Over the coming days, weeks, and months, much will be written and said about Barack Obama’s monumental victory. He inspired a nation. He gave hope to people around the world. And if just for a moment, the United States was no longer the dirty word (or words) that it had become over the past eight years. In his speech last night, Obama reached beyond the United States, with these words:
“And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world – our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand."
Much has been made that an African American has finally reached the pinnacle of American politics. For that reason alone, Obama’s victory is a watershed moment in U.S. history. While racism is still rampant, he has accomplished what few ever thought possible. Obama himself alluded to this in his speech:
“If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.”
What many people don’t realize is that all things are not possible. For many Americans, Obama’s dream will remain just that—a dream. Article II, Section 1 of the U.S. Constitution states that no person except a naturalized born citizen, or a citizen of the U.S. at the time of the adoption of this Constitution shall be eligible to the office of President…
What this means is that most American citizens born outside of the U.S. will never be able to share Obama’s dream of becoming President. The United States is a land of immigrants. In fact, the first few Presidents were born outside the country, yet 232 years after the United States was founded a large proportion of Americans will never be able to aspire to the White House.
In 2003, Senator Orrin Hatch introduced the Equal Opportunity to Govern Amendment, which proposed that a person born outside the U.S., but who had been a citizen for 20 years would be eligible to become President. The proposed amendment failed.
Of the more than 10,000 attempts to amend the Constitution, only 27 have succeeded, but this particular amendment deserves a closer look. If it’s unfair to deny a black man the opportunity to become President, it is equally unfair to deny a fellow American, whose shortcoming, if you can call it that, is that they were born in another country.
And while we're on the topic elections...Americans like to remind themselves, and the world, that theirs is the greatest country in the world. And if that is the case, then why must people line up for four and five hours to vote. It makes no sense to me. If this is what the "greatest" country in the country can offer up, I shudder to think what it might be like in the fourth greatest country in the world.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Women at the Top
When Hillary Clinton was still in the running for the Democratic nomination, and even later when the insular, moose-hunting Sarah Palin was tapped as the Vice-Presidential candidate for the Republicans, many people started asking themselves if the United States was ready for a female president. To suggest that a woman isn't able and ready to lead the United States is such an absurdity. Even more so considering the countless countries that have had a woman as their national leader, including:
Indira Ghandi - India
Benazir Bhutto - Pakistan
Margaret Thatcher - United Kingdom
Corazon Aquino - Phillipines
Gloria Arroyo - Phillipines
Mary Robinson - Ireland
Mary McAleese - Ireland
Megawati Sukarnoputri - Indoesia
Cristina Elizabeth Fernández de Kirchner - Argentina
Angela Merkel - Germany
Ellen Johnson Sirleaf - Liberia
Vaira Vīķe-Freiberga - Latvia
Tarja Kaarina Halonen - Finland
Khaleda Zia - Bangladesh
Luisa Dias Diogo - Mozambique
Michelle Bachelet - Chile
Micheline Calmy-Rey - Switzerland
Golda Meir - Israel
Vigdís Finnbogadóttir - Iceland
Smt. Pratibha Devisingh Patil - India
Borjana Kristo - Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina
Helen Clark - New Zealand
Indira Ghandi - India
Benazir Bhutto - Pakistan
Margaret Thatcher - United Kingdom
Corazon Aquino - Phillipines
Gloria Arroyo - Phillipines
Mary Robinson - Ireland
Mary McAleese - Ireland
Megawati Sukarnoputri - Indoesia
Cristina Elizabeth Fernández de Kirchner - Argentina
Angela Merkel - Germany
Ellen Johnson Sirleaf - Liberia
Vaira Vīķe-Freiberga - Latvia
Tarja Kaarina Halonen - Finland
Khaleda Zia - Bangladesh
Luisa Dias Diogo - Mozambique
Michelle Bachelet - Chile
Micheline Calmy-Rey - Switzerland
Golda Meir - Israel
Vigdís Finnbogadóttir - Iceland
Smt. Pratibha Devisingh Patil - India
Borjana Kristo - Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina
Helen Clark - New Zealand
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Ironic that Florida looks like a gun
Does anyone else find it ironic that the state of Florida looks like a handgun?While economic and political uncertainty is sweeping across the United States like a swift Santa Ana wind, Americans are seemingly finding certainty in their guns. According to a recent Vancouver Sun article, firearms and ammunition sales are up 10 percent in the US this year. Many are attributing the increase to two factors—concerns about the economy and a fear that President Barack Obama will join with his Democrat colleagues to enact new gun controls.
Apparently, in the "best "country in the world, a worsening economy fuels fear of crime and civil disorder. And when fear strikes might as well grab a gun. Seems easier than trying to rationalize the fear.
One customer at a gun shop in Virginia sees the world this way: “People are preparing for catastrophe right now…it’s [guns] insurance. With the stock market crash and people out of work, and the illegal aliens, the probability of civil disorder is very high.”
This guy probably didn’t hear about the recent study that concluded that when people are unable to deal with uncertainty and chaos in their lives they start developing conspiracy theories.
A gun shop owner in Hagerstown, (now that sounds like tough town) Maryland said of the political and economic situation: “It’s common sense. People are scared.”
In 2005, more than 30,000 Americans died from fire-arm related deaths. That’s 10 times more than died in the 2001 terrorist attacks in New York, and in just two years that number would eclipse the total number of Americans that died in the entire 11 year Vietnam War. And they have memorials for those two significant events in American history, and yet there isn’t a memorial for the tens of thousands of Americans killed each year unnecessarily by guns. While 30,000 Americans will meet their fate at the end of gun barrel, more than 70,000 will be injured because of firearms. And Americans are seemingly okay with this.
More than 3,000 children are killed each year by gunfire. It may not sound like a lot, but imagine for a moment if that was your child. It’s probably not surprising then that in the same section of paper that highlighted increased gun sales, there was an equally disturbing article about an eight year old boy, who died after accidentally shooting himself in the head with an Uzi submachine gun, while at a gun show, and apparently under adult supervision. An eight year old boy belongs at the park, not at a gun show.
The logic, or illogic, is that one carries a gun for protection. I suppose if you whip yourself into a frenzied state of fear, then you anything will seem logical, but I remember Dear Abby writing a column once that suggested that if a criminal wants to use a gun to commit a crime they will use the element of surprise. This means that you will have no time to reach into your purse or glove box, or bedside table for your gun. In fact, you’re more likely to kill some kid going door to door looking for treats as happened to one young boy in Texas on Halloween a few years back.
The notion that it is an American right to carry a gun is utter nonsense. The founders of the United States would be horrified to see what has become of the Second Amendment to the Constitution. One former Chief Justice calls it one of the misinterpretation one the biggest frauds in America. Others have called gun violence in the United States a shameful epidemic.
And while there are many gun control advocates, little will change because guns and firearms have become ingrained in the national psyche of Americans. Not unlike the health care debate in Canada. It’s tough to have objective dialogue about an issue when it becomes wrapped up in one's national identity. A shame really, because more people will continue to lose their lives needlessly.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Nickel and Dimed by the airline industry
I took my first flight on June 30, 1984. I remember it like it was, well, 24 years ago. I was 14 years old and had never been to an airport before. I was a tad anxious, yet excited when I saw that 'big orange' CP-Air DC-10, which would fly me away to Amsterdam.The fare for that flight was $998 and the tax was a whopping $12.50. This was before the days of airport improvement fees, security fees, fuel surcharges, wheelchair levies, insurance surcharges, administration fees, late-booking fees, credit-card booking charges, and bag fees.
Now let's put this into perspective. Today, that same flight at the same time of year, would cost $1,700, plus $131 in taxes and fees (and you would have to fly the Dutch airlines KLM, as CP-Air, and its successor brand is no longer in business).
Using a cost of living calculator today's base fare is comparatively the same as it was in 1984; however, the tax has increased from 1% of the fare in 1984 to 7% today. While KLM doesn't list the taxes and fees when making a booking query, I don't think many travellers today would begrudge paying an extra $131 on top of the fare. What people don't like is being teased with a fare and then learning that it will really be hundreds of dollars more.
Take for example a recent $49 fare (one-way, of course) from Vancouver to London. Turns out the return fare is $149 plus $513 in taxes and fees, none of which are listed. Oh, and you'll also have to pay a $15 late-booking fee. What nonsense. If you want to charge me $15, add it to the fare. Don't nickel and dime the consumer when they book. It's that kind of behaviour that incenses the public.
While flying on Air Canada, at the same time, doubles the cost of this particular flight, they are at least more transparent about the taxes and fees.
$526 - base fare
$420 - fuel surcharge
$23 - Airport Improvement Fee
$17 - Canadian Air Traveller Security Fee
$39.96 - UK Passenger Service Charge
$1.15 - GST
$81.14 - UK Air Passenger Duty
Total taxes and fees - $585.25 (or 111% of the fare)
This past weekend, Air Transat and Flight Centre both offered a tantalizing $99 fare to London, but with $512.50 in "secretive" taxes and fees, the cost soars to more than $600. Still a good deal, but why the lack of transparency. There's something wrong when more than 80% of the total fare is made up of "taxes and fees". A clever, yet annoying marketing tool I suppose.
My only wish is that there is some accountability for some of the fees and taxes collected. Take for instance the Canadian Air Travel Security Charge (ATSC), which was instituted in 2002. Initially, the government charged $24 for any flight outside Canada and the US. The fee has since been lowered, but when introduced it was the highest security charge in the world.
Further, because there is no direct mechanism that links the ATSC to the security expenditures, there is a concern the fee, which is meant to be used for air security is going into general revenue, and being used for other purposes.
The public doesn't begrudge airlines that strive to make a profit, but don't try to fool us with low fares. If it costs $600 to fly to London just say so. And the government, too needs to be more transparent about the money it collects.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
An undecided voter
In a previous post I wrote about the need to get rid of the one-cent coin. A seemingly small issue, yet one I think we should start taking more seriously. Sure it's not the biggest issue affecting the country, but let's look at it as progress and a small win. I also mentioned that I would write to the candidates in my riding asking where they stood on this issue.
Surprisingly, or maybe not, none of the candidates responded to my email (more on that later), although I did receive a read-response from the Liberal candidate. I’m not sure what is worse…reading a message and not responding, or not even reading it all. Not even my young Green candidate bothered replying. I guess he was too busy knocking on doors, or organizing children’s birthday parties.
Because this is the first election where I wasn’t driven by any particular issue, I was going to cast my vote based on the responses from my question. When I didn’t receive a response from any candidate, my first reaction was to not cast a vote for any of them. Instead, I was going to vote for a fringe candidate, such as a Libertarian, or a Communist, or maybe a Marxist-Leninist. Although the latter sounds kind of scary. Makes me think of a Siberian gulag.
My colleague thought that would be a waste of a vote. And she should know about wasted votes, what with her so-called “strategic” voting in previous elections. As it turned out, there were only four candidates in my riding.
I then thought I would vote based on colour. Blue is one of my favourite colours, but then so is red. I also like orange. And green too. So, that didn’t really work. In the end, I was handed a ballot. I felt like that person that gets on a roller coaster, but then at the last minute wants to get off, but it’s too late. I stood for a minute or two staring at the four names and their respective parties. I have never been in this position before, but I knew that I couldn’t stay behind the cardboard booth all night. My wife commented how long I took and then asked what game I played to pick the candidate.
There were no games. In the end I voted Green. While my Green candidate will finish last, I think we need to start taking a closer look at Green ideas, and maybe with more support their voice will be heard.
And if one of the other candidates loses by one vote, won’t they be sorry they didn’t respond to my email.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
My Green candidate is a kid
So, I just dashed off a couple emails to the Conservative, Liberal, NDP and Green candidate in my riding, hoping to hear where they stand on ditching the penny. Surprising to some maybe, the NDP had the nicest looking website (I've always had a soft spot for orange, especially that delightful orange suit that my parents dressed me in when I was a kid), followed closely by the conservative candidate's site. The Liberal's website was the weakest, especially in that her email was listed, but I had to re-key it to send her a message. And the Green website, was, well green. In fact, Kermit the Frog would feel at home. Click here for the very green website
What surprised me is that Brian Newbold, the Green candidate, seems very green. Even his last name has the word NEW in it. I know I'm getting older, but he's looks like he's just a kid. In fact, he looks like he should be running for President of the High School Camera Club, rather than as a Member of Parliament. I do think, though, that Brian needs to get out a little more.
“I learned to ride a bike in Fleetwood-Port Kells, attended my first day of school in Fleetwood-Port Kells, graduated high school in Fleetwood-Port Kells, went on my first date in Fleetwood-Port Kells and this is my opportunity to speak out for Fleetwood- Port Kells.”
I don't make this stuff up. It's the first paragraph on his website. I am interested to know where in Fleetwood-Port Kells that he went on his first date.
I'm actually only half-kidding. I have all a lot of respect for everyone that stands for election. There are few jobs where someone must go through a very public, six week interview. Some won't get the job even though they may have been the best candidate.
What surprised me is that Brian Newbold, the Green candidate, seems very green. Even his last name has the word NEW in it. I know I'm getting older, but he's looks like he's just a kid. In fact, he looks like he should be running for President of the High School Camera Club, rather than as a Member of Parliament. I do think, though, that Brian needs to get out a little more.“I learned to ride a bike in Fleetwood-Port Kells, attended my first day of school in Fleetwood-Port Kells, graduated high school in Fleetwood-Port Kells, went on my first date in Fleetwood-Port Kells and this is my opportunity to speak out for Fleetwood- Port Kells.”
I don't make this stuff up. It's the first paragraph on his website. I am interested to know where in Fleetwood-Port Kells that he went on his first date.
I'm actually only half-kidding. I have all a lot of respect for everyone that stands for election. There are few jobs where someone must go through a very public, six week interview. Some won't get the job even though they may have been the best candidate.
Monday, October 6, 2008
It's time to ditch the Penny
It’s time to ditch the penny. For years I have wondered why Canada doesn’t retire the one-cent coin. Not surprising, it now costs more than a cent to produce a cent. So why do we keep producing them? Good question.
Every so often someone proposes getting rid of the penny, but nothing happens--probably because the people that could make them go away are too busy meeting and talking about the penny. In fact, The Penny Review Group, made up of representatives from the Bank of Canada, the Finance Department and the Royal Canadian Mint has met a few times since 2007, but has done little.
In 2006, more than one billion--for the more visually inclined that would be 1,000,000,000--pennies were minted in Canada. The reason so many pennies are made is because they are virtually worthless. People routinely toss them away or hoard them, not because of some inherent value, but rather because they are seen as a nuisance.
The latest person to campaign against the useless Cent is Pat Martin, a NDP MP from Winnipeg, who introduced a Private Members’ Bill earlier this year. A great start, but most Private Bills fail.
According to a recent Vancouver Sun article the Conservatives say they have no plans to do anything about the penny, which first came into circulation 100 years ago, the Liberals say more study is needed (like we need more of that), and the NDP is calling for its removal.
The only argument I have heard for keeping the penny, and at best it's irrational and conspiratorial, is that merchants will rip us off by rounding up. I imagine those same people to be the ones who casually toss their pennies away. There is little logic in keeping the one-cent coin.
Progressive countries such as the Netherlands and Finland have a law in which cash transactions are rounded to the nearest five cents to avoid using the two smallest coins. That means if your bill was $10.22, you would pay $10.20.
There are so few issues being discussed during this election campaign that I will gladly cast my vote to the person who publicly advocates ditching the penny. In fact, I am going to email every candidate in my riding to see where each stands on the issue. And I’ll share the responses with you.
A few facts about Canada’s one-cent coin
- More than 31 billion of the tiny coins have been minted in Canada, the first in 1908
- Up until 1996, the Penny was mostly made from copper. Today with high copper prices, the coins are made of steel, with a hint of copper-plated zinc
- Between 1982 and 1996, the Penny was 12-sided (which I learned is a dodecagon)
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