Sand Castles in the Serengeti

Home...

2005-06-03T23:05:00.000-04:00

I'm home. It's strange. I haven't quite figured out what to do with myself yet...and neither have my parents for that matter. In any case, I'll be putting up some pictures from my time in Europe soooon...I just realized I still don't have Italy photographs up yet. I just wish I could be there instead of here! Maybe I'll come back to comment later when I'm less whiny...

Sleepless in Madrid...

2005-04-24T11:39:00.000-04:00

I don´t think Madrileños sleep...ever. Not even for designated siesta time. I don´t know how they do it...they work, play, work, then play all night, then work, play...it´s a wonder the city is up and running on Monday mornings considering all the playing Thursday to Sunday.

In between all the tapas bars and bee-cafes, I managed to make it to two great restaurants during my time here in this city. Vinitis, a wine cellar-bar-restaurant had the first collection of New Zealand wines that I´ve seen since coming to Europe. That was exciting. But I skipped the NZ and stuck with local fare...bold, robust, spicy Spanish reds. I think I can put Rioja to rest for a little bit now. The food was simple and delicious...potato, octopus, and grape tomato salad in basil-olive oil dressing, and then rabbit in madeira reduction. I decided I hadn´t had quite enough of the restaurant scene after that one, so oday, I had a lovely and rather large lunch at La Finca de Susana. I had a great veal carpaccio with olive oil-anchovie emulsion and crisps, but the stunner was a squid ink rice casserole that came with an amazing garlic-horseradish mayonnaise. The kitchen paid great attention to detail, and the results were fantastic. And the best part about it was that it didn´t cost my arm or leg. It´ll be a rude awakening once I return to Paris...

Well slept...well fed.

2005-04-20T14:03:00.000-04:00

On the ferry to sunny Mallorca, I met a Panamanian woman who calls Palma de Mallorca home. Turns out she´s a chef on a private yacht. Guess where this story is going...

I´ve been staying with Lourdes Guadalupe Gonzalez Pineda since arriving in Palma. The act of eating has never been as pleasant as it has been the last two days. Did I mention how beautiful Mallorca is?

In Between Islands...

2005-04-18T07:11:00.000-04:00

So the pictures promised from Italy never made it onto this site. School got busy (really!), and then travel planning got even crazier. And now, I´m sitting here at an internet cafe in Barcelona - again - waiting for a ferry to take me to Mallorca. I could come back to Barcelona again and again...the city is just bustling with life. I love the fact that I can actually look like I know where I´m going sans map this time.

I just spent 5 days in Corsica, and I loved every minute of it. The only way I can describe Corse is that it is such an enigmatic island. It´s conflicted and ironic, a consequence from its history of cultural and political turmoil. Even the gorgeous natural scenery of the island is strange and screams conflict. You could literally be sitting in 25 degree weather on bleach white sand looking out into sapphire coloured water, and then behind you are umbrella pines and snow capped mountains. I hopped on buses to travel between cities, and the ride itself was worth the trip. We climbed narrow, winding roads up mountains of red rock, then passed natural springs, and then would somehow end up along the coastal waters.

The food, of course, was unbelievable too. I learned that I was visiting at a good time because the local charcuterie and cheeses were at its prime right after winter. Wild boar roam free range in the mountains, and they get to feed on chestnuts and other goodies...which in turn, make them super tasty. Lucky boars. Brocciu, a fresh cheese made with ewe´s milk, is only available in the winter time, and it was buttery, sweet, tangy, and all those good things. And Corsicans are ingenious; they make brocciu filled beignets (donuts) that would be the downfall of me if they were available all year round. Soft, spongy, sugary donuts with salty cheese filling...gaaah.

I met a wonderful family in Porto-Vecchio, a long story that I PROMISE to tell on this blog sometime when I´m sitting in front of my computer...because I need to post some pictures of this family´s home. I want to go see them again, but for now, here´s my shout out to Marie-France, Jean-François, and Jeremy for their generosity, kindness, and hospitality.

Must run now, will chat later. Miss you...lots of love from abroad.

Viva Italia!

2005-03-06T16:49:00.001-05:00

So I've been back on home turf (Paris) for a just about a week since my 10-day Italy trip. I'm in the process of getting myself organized and attempting to start some school work - yes, I am technically enrolled in courses here. I know I've promised to share photographs and stories of my Italian adventures...they'll be posted shortly! In the meantime, warm up to my Top Ten List of Random Thoughts (with related stories to follow):

Travelling by train in Europe is fantastic - until you get stuck in a caboose with a class of pre-pubescent Italian buggers and their equally obnoxious teachers on a 14-hour overnight ride.
French men are aggressive. Italian men are shameless.
If you're Chinese anywhere else in the world, you're Japanese in Italy. If you're Flip, you're Cambodian.
Venice is an absolute tourist trap, but I was a happily trapped tourist.
The counterfeit goods in Italy are atrociously fake. They need to learn from the Chinese, errr...Japs.
Snow happens in Tuscany.
Michaleangelo must be doing somersaults in his grave if he knew where his precious David is being showcased (ie: in a hole-in-the-wall of a museum).
Naples is Dante's Inferno.
Italian women like to die their hair jet black (mannequins on store windows included) and wear day-glo orange makeup...it confuses the hell out of asian tourists.
Rome has a love affair with cats...

And lastly, Val's Beef of the Week:

Vatican City and St. Peter's Basilica is a gong show. Where else can you buy a lollipop with the Pope's face plastered on it? My mother said it best: "You mean you can lick the Pope?"

Next up: Day 1 and 2 in Venezia

A Weekend with Antoni Gaudi

2005-02-10T15:11:00.000-05:00

In one word, Barcelona is charming. The lively harbour city welcomed us last weekend with fantastic weather. My five friends and I arrived at 3am in search of a hostel near Las Ramblas, a noisy street in the Old City full of music and food...after a good night's rest, we dove head first into a weekend of discovering whimsical architecture and the power of Sangria.

Barcelona Day 1

Antoni Gaudi was just another name on my "to-read-about" list, until I finally got a chance to see his work on this trip. After a splendid coffee and croissant at the hostel, we hopped on the bus (I love the metro systems in Europe) and took a scenic ride up to Parc Guell.

Gaudi was originally commissioned to design an upscale residential area overlooking the city, but his ideas were considered too radical for the bourgeoisie, so the housing development was never completed. What was left of his project has now become one of the most magical parks in Europe, with gingerbread-like buildings, twisted pathways, avenues of columns, and a stunning trencadis park bench that winds around a giant esplanade. Gaudi set the framework for the park, but most of the work was done by his assistant. You really have to see it to believe it.

It's a wonder we managed to order food at a local cafe...most people in Catalonia prefer to speak Catalan over Spanish. I had assumed that with some Spanish vocabulary, I'd be able to get by in Barcelona. Catalan is like a cross between French and Spanish...very difficult to read! After lunch, we walked to the famed Temple Exiatori de la Sagrada Familia. Prior to seeing it, I only knew of its incomplete state and hadn't thought much about this bascilica. Afterall, Paris is dotted with cathedrals...how different could this be? I was completely shocked when I saw the facade of this building, and in an instant I understood why it was not finished yet. The first stone was laid in 1882, and Gaudi took over the project in 1883. He would work on this project for the next 40 years until his death. Its design was inspired by the great Gothic cathedrals, and Gaudi overlooked the construction of the four towers and the nativity scene.

The church is ripe with symbolism, and according Gaudi's original plan, the tallest point of this church will be 1 meter lower than the tallest point on Montjuic, so to say that his creation will not exceed God's. The stained glass windows contained hidden words, and the columns supporting the interior were pieces of art in its own right. We trekked up 350 steps up a winding staircase to look out into the city and to get a better look at the tops of the towers. Its projected completion date is 2015 - I can't wait to go back to see it. It's hard to put into words sufficient to illustrate how insane this structure is...you'll just have to come with me to see it for yourself!

We headed off to Choquito's for dinner after being repeated courted by the maitre'd to "come-een....trrry tapas!". I had the most delicious Catalan seafood soup and split a massive paella with my friends. They served Sangrias by the 1/2 litre, and needless to say, the crowd was chatty and the room full of laughter...we wandered down Las Ramblas, watched street acts, and got icecream before walking into an Irish bar (of all places)...

Barcelona Day 2

I asked for two coffees in the morning before setting out to Montjuic to see the Olympic Park and the view of the city. We didn't cover very much ground in this area of Barcelona as there is so much to see...but we managed to find the Magic Fountain and the Circle of Friends.

We strolled into Olympic Stadium and sat in the square just behind the building soaking up the sun. It was 17 degress outside and parents brought their kids to bicycle and rollerblade. It was a pleasant getaway from the hustle bustle of Paris. After a day in the sun, we went out for some Philippino food for dinner, wandered Las Ramblas some more, and called it a night.

Barcelona Day 3

The sun went into hiding Sunday morning and the rain came out in its place. My roommate and I got drenched running to the gothic Catedral de Barcelona for 10:30 mass. It was still pouring when mass ended, so the weekly sardana dance at the square that I was so looking forward to seeing was cancelled. A scrumptious tapas lunch at the Placa Reial made up for the disappointment...if any of you ever have a chance to try tapas in Barcelona, I would highly recommend Cafe de L'Opera. It's a throwback to the 20's and serves deliciously affordable bites. I found a bar called "Kane Room" at Placa Reial and it made me miss my brother...

After lunch, we headed off to La Pedrera, one of my favourite stops of this trip. We didn't have enough time to visit all the Gaudi buildings, but this was a definite must-see. La Pedrera, or "The Stone Quarry", is an apartment building built entirely with columns and parabolic arches, with no supporting walls, and supposedly without a single straight line or right angled corner.

The terrace of the building had ventilation shafts and chimneys masked as sculptures, and the view of the city was unreal. We toured a flat that is a recreation of one from the 1920's, and it is a beautiful and quirky space to live in. Gaudi also designed furniture, and I saw so many pieces that I would love to have! If only I had a house to put them in.

There was an exhibition dedicated to Gaudi's archictectural achievements in La Pedrera. One of the neatest things I learned about him is a technique he uses to see the image of his buildings. Gaudi hangs weights at various lenghts and uses the force of gravity to form the shapes that he wants to achieve. Apparently, Gaudi never used much math or sketching...he just hung huge models of weights and then placed a mirror beneath his model. The mirror image reflect the shape of the building that he had in mind. The picture below doesn't quite do it justice, but it's actually a mirror image of my friends and I with a weight model of a tower hanging over our heads...

The next Gaudi building on our list was Casa Batllo, but we only had enough time to see the exterior. The facade of this apartment is humourous...almost Little Mermaid-like. The next time I come back to Barcelona (July, perhaps??), I'll be definitely be spending more time in the Eixample area to make sure I see all of the Gaudi buildings.

Europeans are late eaters, especially Spaniards since they have a two hour siesta in the middle of the day. We decided to hit the beach to see the sunset before heading off for dinner. It was still a little too cold for the water, but the sand and the sounds were soothing nonetheless.

We queued at Les Quinzes Nits in Placa Reial for dinner and met some fellow travellers who also read in their Lonely Planet guide that this was the place to be for good eats. I had an incredible smoked meat, bosc pear and wild greens salad, wild mushroom dumpling and veal steakette, and a traditional Catalunynan dessert of vanilla nougat icecream with Catalunyan custard brulee and dark chocolate. It was mindblowing.

I would come back to Barcelona in a heartbeat...it was a weekend of good food, great sights, with the fantastic company of friends. And plenty of ice cream too! It was most definitely a vacation from a vacation. What a bummer to be back in Paris (don't kill me)!

World Outside My Window...

2005-02-02T17:33:00.000-05:00

When I first decided to blog about my trip here, I promised myself that I would not bore everyone with an account of my day-to-day events. But entering into my fifth week(!) of living here, I realize that the charm of Paris lies in its everyday happenings. The family run cinema tucked away in the corner, new neighbourhoods discovered, conversations with the waiters at your favourite cafe...that's the quintessential Paris experience. This is a city of interaction and of human connection. It is such a far cry from suburbia...I have no idea how I will handle moving home.

It's a big deal being Asian here. You get hollered at quite a bit. "KONICHIWA!"...i'm not Japanese..."NI HOW MAH?...WO AI NI!"...it gets a little tiresome after a while. In the Metro station, at the mall, crossing the street. I don't understand the fascination. "You speak English? Japanese? Non? Korean? Non? Let me guess...SheeeenoAAH-zuh. Yes? O mon Dieu! I knew it...I could tell". If there is ever a trophy to be awarded to the most effective shoe salesman, it will have to go to the young man working at Eram at Forum Les Halles. He wins in a most unconventional manner (by North American standards): by hollering "wo ai ni!" at the client, then proceeding to grab and kiss the client, he causes the client to unwillingly set a record time in the 10m-dash-to-the-cash with a pair boots in hand. He is also very effective in keeping customer traffic flow smoothly by encouraging clients who have paid for merchandise set a record time in the 10m-dash-to-the-exit. The client in question being me, of course. Damn, I love those boots.

My grandfather passed away last weekend after spending a month in the hospital. After receiving news of his passing (via email...my father is impossible), I sat on the phone with my mother - silent - for 3 whole minutes before my father matter-of-factly filled me in with the details. Then, with a cinema festival pass in hand, I hopped on the Metro to the nearest theatre and watched 5 films within a 48 hour period. In the hours when I wasn't watching a film, I sat in the theatre with a mystery novel in hand, befriended several die-hard cinephiles and bantered with the couple who owns the cinema. The movie frenzy involved 2046 in Japanese/Mandarin/Cantonese with French subtitles, Clean in French/English/Cantonese with French subtitles, Un Malo Educacion in Spanish with French subtitles, La Chute in German with French subtitles, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind with French subtitles, and one and a half pounds of chocolate. It was a dizzying affair. Having left the shape of my butt permanently imprinted on my favourite seat in theatre, I walked out into the streets of Paris wishing I was with my mother.

This is the view from my balcony, looking out into Parc Montsouris. I go running there and to escape from the residence life once in a while.

We went ice skating on the first level of the Eiffel Tower two Fridays ago...I hadn't laced up since grade school. The City of Light is beautiful at night.

The Chanel Guillotine, by Tom Sachs (1999)

My roommate and I went to the Museum of Modern Art at the Pompidou Centre and browsed through their gargantuan collection from the last century. This is one of my favourite pieces...a clever and humourous commentary in a not-so-subtle manner.

The fridge in our room is ridiculously tiny. Technically, we don't even have a freezer, unless the block of ice in the back of the fridge counts. So whenever I have an ice cream craving, my roomie and I will run to the nearest grocery store, buy a tub of ice cream, boot it home before it starts melting (since it's like 5 degrees celcius here) and consume the entire carton in one sitting. Needless to say, Valerie the Ice Cream Beast kicks Kristine's ass....everytime. Guaranteed.

Un verre d'eau, por favor.

2005-01-18T10:30:00.000-05:00

I've come to learn that foreign students go through phases when adapting to a new country and its language. The first phase is embarassment. You're slightly sheepish that there is absolutely nothing in your vocabulary bank that you could use to string together a five word sentence. The three-year-old on the bus has more to say than you do. That is a cause for embarassment. The second phase is shamelessness. You're tired of furrowing your brows whilst repeating "Parlez-vous anglais?" in a strained voice, hoping to catch a little sympathy from the usually hoity toity local crowd. So you overcome the embarassment by learning to whip out your dictionary in broad daylight. You shamelessly invent words that seem to sound French and attempt to converse with locals using broken phrases and expressive body language. The third phase is confusion. Just when you think you got a good grasp on the basics of this new language, strange words start to involuntarily pop out of your mouth. Words like "por favor". In a French speaking country.

It's been two weeks since I first arrived, and much of myself has changed since I stepped on the airplane in Toronto. I find myself being in an observant mode most days, just taking everything in. The way people walk, the rhythm of the city, and the nature of existence in this society. Humans of this planet exist in such diverse manners. I'm constantly reminded of the fact that the majority of people in the world do not live the way we do in North America, or in Europe for that matter. Things that concern us may not even cross the minds of 90% of the world's population. Our social habits, conditions of acceptance, and the moral fibers that define the standards in the societies that we live in - all of these exist uniquely for each culture, none of which are the same across borders. What is normal and what is odd? What makes something beautiful or offensive? Remarkable or ordinary? Revolutionary or archaic? Important or trivial?

It Don't Mean a Thing

2005-01-13T08:28:00.000-05:00

It don't mean a thing/if it ain't got that swing/
Doo wat doo wat/doo wat doo wat/
doo wat doo wat/doo wat doo wat doo waht...

It's amazing how ignorant I am to what authentic Parisian French sounds like versus French peppered with foreign accents. Like the time my friends and I went to a Chinese restaurant in "Chinatown"...I couldn't understand a word the waiter was saying, but assumed that it was due to my poor French. Turned out that my French speaking friend couldn't make out his "French" either. His French was too Chinese. I resorted to speaking Cantonese to him. Lesson 1: Do not attempt to learn French in Chinatown.

It don't mean a thing/all you gotta do is sing/
Doo wat doo wat/doo wat doo wat/
doo wat doo wat/doo wat doo wat doo waht...

I found a very cool bi-monthly magazine that contains the schedules of all of Paris' live music acts. It's a staple on every local music lover's reading list. Last night we sought out a Latin-jazz piano gig in the 10th arr., only to find that the area is scary grounds at night for Canadian women to tread on. We avoided speaking in English entirely when strange "English-speaking-French" men started to follow us. When we finally found the bar, we were completely disappointed - the bar was next to empty! How is that even possible in Paris?! Lesson 2: Dark narrow streets + 10th arr. = no jazz + scary wannabe-Canadian men.

It makes no difference/if it's sweet or hot/
Just give that rhythm/everything you've got...

So we hopped back onto the Metro and went to more familiar grounds in the Latin Quarter for some Jazz-Manouche (gypsy jazz). If you're not familiar with Manouche, check out this site www.gypsy-guitars.com and click 'Video' on the left panel to sample some kickass music. There were two cute manouche guitar players who were entirely charming with their smooth guitar licks, as well as a young female singer by the name of Maria. Maria spoke this French that was completley unrecognizable to me. Je n'ai compris rien. I even squinted a bit to see if I could read her lips a little, but to no avail. Did not understand. To make matters worse, she would occasionally look straight at me and go "Ouais?", which sounded like "Wennnh", to which I'd nod as if I understood. Just as the confidence I had in my limited French was about to vanish to nil, my French-speaking friend turned to me and said, "I have no idea what she's saying...I think she's Spanish and has a really weird accent". No comprendo. Lesson 3a: (Variation on Lesson 1) Do not attempt to learn French from Spanish people. Lesson 3b: Paris is full of non-French people who think they can speak French. Myself included.

Les guitaristes manouches...

So Maria was apparently was singing in English. They started playing a song that I thought was "It Don't Mean a Thing", and I got excited because I had never heard this song done in manouche. But when Maria started singing, it went something like this:

Ihd donn min a ting eef id ang goddat swang/Tu vah tu vahd tu vah tu vahd...
Ihd donn min a ting OH yu gouda du is sang/Tu vah tu vahd....
May no diff meh meh meh meh...weeeeet au haute...
Jus' give dad with-m meh meh meh....U GOOOOOOOOOOT...

Now, English is my second language, and it seemed like it was Maria's third. I completely understand that it's hard to sing in a different language (try vocalizing "Ich spucke" in German lieder while keeping the spitting to a minimum). But if I were getting PAID for a gig at a jazz bar, I'd be hiring a tutor to get my random foreign syllables right. Oh, and perhaps I'd learn the lyrics and their meanings? How is it possible to convey the essence of a song if the singer hasn't a clue what the words mean? There was no way that the funny words coming out of Maria's mouth were a Parisian form of scatting. Maybe meh meh meh is street lingo that I haven't caught onto yet.

Chez Rosa (L-R): Kristine, Erin, "Mohammed", Valerie, Aussie Robert, and Cute Apprentice

Towards the end of the night, we met an Australian guy working as a chef(!) in London on vacation for a week here in Paris. He was kind enough to walk us home after we missed the last Metro. We had discussion on the "Australian-Alps" (ie: mudslides where Aussies snowboard), and why Commonwealth countries are such goodie-two-shoes all the time. We bantered on about the beanie vs. the toque and struggeld to figure out whether he should be classified as a "mate", a "bloody bloke", or a "mate-bloke" when he's in London. Along the way, we stopped by a creperie just as it was about to close. My French speaking friend charmed our way to several crepes and managed a photo-op with Mohammed and his cute apprentice. They even turned on "les lumieres pour le menu" for the photo (see top left) because they are so proud of their craft! I love this city!

A Day in the Life of Marie Antoinette...

2005-01-11T00:13:00.000-05:00

The Eiffel Tower at Midnight

I went to the Notre Dame for mass yesterday morning, thinking that perhaps on Sundays it'd be closed to tourists during services. Boy was I wrong. I couldn't believe how awful it was, my roommate and I sitting in mass while camera happy visitors were pushing and shoving their way through the cathedral. It's MASS! Go AWAY! Nevertheless, I had a memorable experience participating in the service. They also had the most beautiful chorus that sang like angels. What a wonderful thing it must be to be able to sing in a building like the Notre Dame! Their voices just soared and filled the entire hall. There was something completely serene and intensely spiritual abotu the whole thing. The service was conducted by people who took it very seriously. It wasn't a tourist act for them at all.

Woke up to a gorgeous sunny day this morning, so my friends and I decided to get out and visit the Conciergerie where numerous famous French figures sentenced to their deaths spent their last days there. How morbid. The Conciergerie used to be intertwined with the Palais de la Cite, but when the king moved out, they turned it into a prison hall. I had no idea that it was used as a prision up to just before WWII! It was insane how old the building was and how well it held up over the many years of war. We saw Marie Antoinette's jail cell, which is bigger than my residence room here! She also had a private chapel of her own. It just felt so eerie walking in hallways where hundreds of people sat waiting for their deaths. I just looked at some of the pictures I took, and yikes! They still creep me out!

La Vie Parisienne...

2005-01-08T02:23:00.000-05:00

What a whirlwind of a week. After many goodbyes and a few tears, I boarded a crummy US Airways flight to Paris on Monday. We arrived Tuesday noon at CDG airport and must have had "tourist" stamped on our foreheads, because it took no time before a cute blue-eyed cabbie picked us up and offered to take us wherever we needed to go. I said "oui", "non", "merci", and giggled a whole lot because my French was so embarrassing! Parisians are crazy drivers, and I clutched my luggage for dear life the whole way back to the Cite Universitaire. Since arriving here, there have been numerous close calls of "AHH! He's gonna run me over!"...I have now unwilingly become the suicidal pedestrian.

My initial plan for this week was just to settle into my new place and learn my way around the neighbourhood. However, that plan was completely scrapped when I got here on Tuesday. I had not even put my luggage down for 3 minutes before a PhD student from Montreal living in the building offered us a quick tour of our new surroundings. The "quick tour" turned out to be a 4 hour affair in the 5th and 6th arrondissements. The first "real" words of French I spoke was for the purpose of ordering food. How predictable! I've learned that a "no-shame" attitude is the key to success. You just have to throw yourself out there, sound like a bit of a moron, but that's probably the best way to learn it! Besides, food is such a great incentive for practicing French. I got the most amazing sandwich in return for saying "Je voudrais avoir...uh...". There's something about this city that just makes you perpetually hungry. My new philosophy is "J'ai faim...anything is good".

Since Tuesday, we've managed to catch the front entrance of the Notre Dame, scarf down pastries, inhale espressos (I kind of miss filtered coffee...), took a peek into the Seine River, and went into several bookstores that would put Chapters to shame. Late last night, we took a stroll down the Champs-Elysees. We stood outside a theatre where the French premiere of the Aviator was taking place, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jude Law... but to no avail. In any case, he's not nearly as beautiful as the Tour D'Eiffel when it "sparkles" on the hour! We decided we absolutely had to see it, so we ran across town to catch some sparkle action. Just as promised, at the stroke of twelve at midnight, the whole thing lit up like a Christmas tree. And of course, we were obliged to gush and squeal and gawk as tourists, which seemed to amuse some of the locals.

It's now Saturday morning, and I cannot believe how much food I've consumed! Who am I kidding, there is no way this is just a "phase". We've been here for a whole of 4 days and have managed to acquaint ourselves rather nicely with the owner of the creperie down the street. This is bad news.

My Favourite Things...

2004-12-13T20:46:00.000-05:00

'Tis the season...

...of Oprah's favourite things. I don't see why she should have all the fun, so I figured it's time to have my own list of favourite things. Mind you, I can't afford the giveaways that Oprah lavishes on her viewers. So I guess you'll just have to trust me on the fact that these things are nothing short of splendid:

The Triplets of Belleville - it is one of the darkest and funniest films that I have seen in a while. Non-stop chuckling guaranteed!
Riddoch Coonawara 2001 Chardonnay - what a steal! Peach and quince at its yummiest. Plan on lugging home a case of this.
Coco Mademoiselle - if everyone sweated Chanel, the world would be a much better place.
Italian Nougat - pistachios and dried cherries enveloped in velvety honey nougat...so naughty.
Manolo Blahnik - as seen below on Old Church Street, London.

While I'm on this subject of favourite things, I suggest you download Outkast's My Favourite Things. The first time I heard their rendition of that song, I swore I also heard Oscar Hammerstein II and Richard Rodgers rolling over in their graves. But I have to say that it is quite the dandy. You just have to hear it to know what I mean.

Moxie

2004-11-28T21:21:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since the last time I left any tidbits here...life can get pretty eventful sometimes! I've decided that in order for me to make it through the next two weeks, I'll need to up the ante a little bit. So I was thinking: Austin Powers taps into his mojo, but who on this good earth actually has that? C'mon ladies, moxie's where it's at. That's what's gonna get you through the rough stuff.

Spider

2004-11-06T12:40:00.000-05:00

I saw the David Cronenberg film Spider the other night, starring Ralph Fiennes, Miranda Richardson, and Lynn Redgrave. Here's a word of advice - don't watch this if your brain is tired. But it was a really great movie, I swear! It bugged me a bit after watching it...

The story revolves around the character Spider (Fiennes), who suffers from severe schizophrenia. At the beginning of the film, we watch him trek to a halfway house in London after being released from a mental hospital. There, he stays with the head house mistress (Redgrave), and several other loonie patients. Spider keeps a journal, and we get a glimpse of his hieroglyphic-like writing as he relives his past in a present day flashback. We see 10 year-old Spider's relationships with his saintly mother (Richardson) and his bar crawling father (Gabriel Byrne). Somewhere in between witnessing his father hooking up with a tramp (also played by Richardson) at the bar, and then the eventually shocking murder scene of his mother, we learn of how these events have formed the twisted reality inside Spider's head. The ending made the 1.5 hour crawl of a movie completely worth watching.

Fiennes is insanely good in this role, especially with those creepy steely grey eyes of his that stare out into nowhere. The supporting characters are so well casted, especially Richardson, who takes three roles in this film (very significant). I had to do a bit of thinking after watching the movie, and figured that Spider's condition is a result of his inability to connect the illusion of his saintly mother with the reality of her sexuality. You'll get it when you see the film. I recommend this movie to anyone who's up for a thinking movie. If you like Ralph Fiennes but don't want to think, go watch Maid in Manhattan (where he and Jennifer Lopez have ZERO chemistry).

Loving you, loving me.

2004-10-31T20:32:00.000-05:00

I'm an enormous ball of angst...just want to leave on a jet plane.

Random wishful thoughts:
I can time warp and "bye" the entirety of November and the first three weeks of December.
That would make Christmas...next week!
Passport photos make everyone feel uber photogenic.
I got a get-out-of-jail-free card!!

Actually, at this point, I'll even settle for a pass-go-and-collect-$200. It's hard to stay motivated for school,

you know?

Hate mongering/keep 'em comin'/
Lovin' careless/don't wear nothin'/
Kitchen clangin'/to feed the masses/
Po' boy caps and/harp on glasses

Preachin' lover-lies/to teach the converted/
Junkies perverted/fate reverted to/
nilch, zero/negative accumulation/
where you at, kid?/no love lost in creation

Readin' fool's words/boppin' to the cripple's dance/
you can't match me/I'm the gingerbread man/
love that "lovin' you/lovin' me"/
mark my words/when they tell you
i'm/
so crazy/

A Canadian in Paris

2004-10-22T08:21:00.000-04:00

S'wonderful, s'marvelous...you just have to love Gershwin.

I went to a Traveller's Connection meeting last night to get together with some of the people that I'll be travelling with next January. After chatting about flying together and thinking about our 11-day reading week, it just finally sunk in that I'm leaving in 10 weeks. The funny thing was that noone had decided when they plan on returning home. Or even IF they're planning on coming back. It's great to know that I'll have some travel buddies after school is over in April!

So this morning I checked the status of my bank account, and realized I'm going to have to continue being frugal with everything. Spend wisely now, fly to Prague later.

Get on the bus, go to sleep.
Get off the bus, go to pee.
Get to the site, snap photos.
Get back home and it's all forgotten.
— Chinese saying about sightseeing

Elevator Music

2004-10-20T22:16:00.000-04:00

I love talking to people in elevators. It's always such an awkward environment, but it can be so amusing. Especially in squishy, elbow-rubbing elevators. Mmmm...someone smells like lavender and sandalwood. Personally, I like elevators that play bad music, or songs that you've heard a million times but still can't quite put a finger on it. and the tap drips all night/water torture in the sink/and it's starting to hurt/everytime I breathe...And how can I forget to mention the rides with TV monitors that keep you up-to-date with the day's news. It's a vertical commute for the uber elite. In a strange turn of events, U.S. military have coerced confessions from an Al-Queda member...I've learned that it's impossible to read an entire news story while travelling between floors 12 and 15...by placing a stainless steel colander on their captive's head and stringing it to a printer that continuously spews out "L-I-A-R"...

It doesn't matter what kind of elevator it is. Elevators just beg for conversation. Most people don't know what to make of a situation where, out the blue, someone breaks the silence. Most people look at their feet and pretend they didn't hear anything. Truth be told, I don't set out with the intention to make strangers squirm. But this is what ends up happening much of the time.

Once in a while, amidst all the duds, you'll find a gem in the rough. You'll bump into an elevator-conversationalist-in-the-making. They're a little shy and hesitant to reply to your random elevator observations, but I'll bet they secretly always wanted to be an elevator chatterbox.

And then you can't help but feel like you're kindred spirits of a kind, you know?

Angry Rock Chick...

2004-10-15T08:41:00.000-04:00

I got stuck in the world's worst traffic jam on Wednesday. By the time I got to work, I had maxed out my driving-sanity quota for the day. And this was before I had to make my trip to Guelph for class and back for work. Most of you know that I usually like the driving, but that day, I had enough. By the time I got in the car at 9:30 for my trip to class that morning, I was ready to call it quits.

Until I rediscovered my Sheryl Crow CDs that were hidden under the passenger seat. Wow, if you ever want to listen to someone who's angry, depressed, vengeful, and side splittingly funny, you need to pick up her pre-soak-up-the-sun CDs. Yes, that crazy angry woman you see belting out If It Makes You Happy in the ugly gold CRV on the 401 would be me.

Six-lane highway running up to my back door
But it won't take me where I want to be
I took the I-95 down to Pensacola
All I found was a bunch of holyrollers
The don't know nothing about saving me
--- Maybe Angels, from Sheryl Crow (1995)

Mill St.Coffee Porter

2004-10-03T22:50:00.000-04:00

I had the most lux thing in the world yesterday. It came in this unsuspecting stubby bottle. But oh my word, it was heaven. For those of you who are Balzac's Coffee and porter lovers, you have to get your hands on this one. Who needs a boyfriend if you've got Mill St. Brewery Coffee Porter? What a treat.

Lost in Translation...

2004-10-02T22:36:00.000-04:00

I love that movie. It's one of the most beautiful things I've seen in a while... I'm not a Bill Murray fan, but it really wasn't a difficult task to watch him sort through those burgundy carpet samples and sing karaoke with Scarlett Johansson in a pink wig. So priceless.

The movie is completely depressing, but humourous and insightful at the same time. You cry, then inexplicably, you find yourself laughing out loud. And then, at the end, you let out a big sigh...if only there was a way to capture that moment when Bob rests his hand on Charlotte's foot as a gesture of unspoken understanding.

Listening to: Cuando nadie me ve by Alejandro Sanz...this song makes me cry everytime I hear it. Completely lost in translation.

Responsibility to Protect

2004-09-22T23:02:00.000-04:00

This has been on my mind all week...

The U.N. states three criteria for intervention in a nation-state's internal affairs:
1. War crimes
2. Crimes against humanity
3. Genocide

To date, there are 50, 000 dead in Darfur. More than 1.2 million have fled their homes. This situation frightens me. It's Rwanda all over again. Don't let the U.N. get away with using embargos and restrictions as means of resolving the issue.

"What is required is outright intervention under the premise of the Responsibility to Protect." --- Lt.-Gen. Romeo Dallaire

King Ball on 23rd Street

2004-09-21T21:32:00.000-04:00

Some people have asked me, "why don't you write about yourself?"

I don't exactly live a life of adventure, so I figure I'd spare you the details of my day-to-day activities. The other thing is, I don't really like talking about myself a whole lot. You know when you stare at a word for a really long time, and it starts to look really weird? It's the same thing with thinking about self. Self is weird. If you sit and think about yourself for a little bit, and tap into your own consciousness, it's so bizarre. Say the word self a couple of times and think about you just being. What a strange feeling. Or maybe I'm just a nutcase.

Anyone game to see I Heart Huckabees with me when it comes out?

Had to do a double take today when I saw the strangest thing...a metrosexual at Guelph. I didn't think they existed in Guelph, but I guess I was wrong. And then after noticing the first one, I started seeing other ones peppered about campus. They stick out the way asians do in Guelph. They just look so...neat. So put together...so strategized. I'm anal when it comes to well manicured hands, but there's something wrong when a guy has neater fingernails than me.

We got to observe a slaughter today in lab. I worked in the meat cutting room for an entire summer and had walked by the slaughter house numerous times, but nothing's quite the same as seeing it for yourself. I'll spare you the grisely details, but all meat eaters should at least know what happens when animals get slaughtered. Don't get me wrong, I don't love meat any less than I did this morning before the lab session. But it makes you appreciate what you eat a whole lot more. So think about it long and hard the next time you decide to not treat a piece of meat with some respect and dignity.

Saddened by recent string of bad news stories on the front pages of newspapers. Let's not get caught up in our own bubble and forget about the rest of the world that's still living and breathing with us.

Here's to good times with great friends...

Do you remember playing king ball right on 23rd street
K.I.N.G.
I was there
I remember when you got your first pair of sneaks
(Aww they were bad!)
Converse I think
I remember you swore you were so big and bad
You walked around like your hmmm didn't stink
But I was there
Always been there I remember that it did
It did so!

Please find me...I am almost 30

2004-09-19T16:25:00.000-04:00

I hadn't been to Molly Bloom's since April, so when I went on Thursday night with my dear old friends, I realized just how much I missed it. Rambunctious music, greasy food, delicious beer. I even missed the waiter with the really bad hair. Had the bartender pour me a gorgeous pint of Guinness and then listened to Skinny Phat all night. It was such a riot when they did their rendition of Hey Ya!...two white boys in Guelph with their acoustic guitars telling the ladies to shake it like a polaroid picture. Hopefully I'll be able to sneak in a couple more of those evenings this semester...y'all should come out with me next time.

I read in The Star that Leonard Cohen turns 70 on Tuesday. I had no idea that he had lived in a Zen monastery for a period of time...he always seems so depressed! At one point in his lifetime, he was infatuated with an older woman by the name of Marita la Fleche. She had told him to "go on your way, young man, and come back when you're 30". Later, he wrote on the wall of a Montreal bistro:

"Marita, please find me, I am almost 30".

Happy 70th, Leonard Cohen.

"I know that there is an eye that watches all of us. There is a judgment that weighs everything we do. And before this great force, which is greater than any government, I stand in awe and I kneel in respect. And it is to this great judgment that I dedicate this next song." -- L. Cohen, Warsaw 1985

Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah!
Hallelujah...

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah!
Hallelujah...

You say I took the Name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well, really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
the holy, or the broken Hallelujah!
Hallelujah...

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong,
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!
Hallelujah...

Phillip Marlowe and the Gin Gimlet...

2004-09-15T22:22:00.000-04:00

I have always liked gin, despite its rather dubious beginnings as a "poor man's tipple" and a "mother's ruin" in generations before my time. But I never really learned to love gin until I had a vodkatini.

It was a travesty.

In a cocktail world saturated with vodkatinis, saketinis, kiwitinis, cranillatinis, chocolatinis, eeniemeenieweenietinis, there is nothing quite like the marriage of juniper berry and olive that can only be found in the dry martini. It's herbacious, racy, and stunningly cool, all at once.

"The dry martini is more than a cocktail --- it's an institution".

Cheers to that.

Don't Be a Stranger...

2004-09-12T17:25:00.000-04:00

I never thought I would have to succumb to this in order to keep in contact with everyone, but yes, it has begun.

I blog.

I had all the good intentions of blogging over the course of the summer to keep all you UoG kids in the loop, but it never materialized. So now that we're all back in school to learn, and since I'm not in Guelph this time around, I figured it'd be a good time to start. It's beginning to sink in that after this year is over, I can no longer call myself a student. A little sad, eh?...I'll miss the thrill of being robbed by the university every four months. Just promise to not be strangers when school is done?

I recently read the book The Calligrapher by Edward Docx. Witty guy. And (bonus) he looked really hot in the jacket photo. In any case, the novel was a humourous read. However, the ridiculously moronic ending just destroyed the entire novel. It's as gutwrenchingly disappointing as a failed souffle --- looks promising in the oven but then completely deflates upon cooling. For those of you intending to reading the book, I would suggest you to read up to page 308. Then stop.

If anything, you should read the book for Docx's account of calligraphy's patron demon. Apparently, for all the patron saints that exist in the world, only calligraphy has a patron demon. His name is Titivillus, and he is a "malicious little bastard". Check him out: http://home.earthlink.net/~thesaurus/Titivillus.html

Parting words from Jill Scott...
you're here/i'm pleased/i really dig your company/your style, your smile, your peace mentality...

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2004-05-05T19:28:00.000-04:00

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