1) In class yesterday:
Me, looking over the shoulders of two grade 11 girls as I walk past their desks: Girls, c'mon! I said no phones. (keep walking)
Girl, calling after me: Sorry, miss! We were just--
(I turn to them)
Other girl: Trying to look something up.
(Me internally: Dictionaries live in phones now?)
First girl: Yeah. How do you spell "schizophrenia"?
Me: Oh, well, er-- Yeah, fine. Look in your phone.
First girl: Thanks, miss.
Me: You've won...
Other girl: Yes, miss.
Me: ...this round.
This proves that the reason I refuse to get a cell phone is that I am afraid they are smarter than I am (and I'm probably right, because what I was actually think began with "s-k-" until I realize that was nuts. People think I'm a good speller but I really just own a good [paper] dictionary and sit with it open at my left elbow, which is why I spelled "schizophrenia" correctly above).
2) On the subway, I laughed aloud at something I was reading. What I was reading was Moral Disorder by Margaret Atwood, so it's not so surprising that I laughed, because it is very funny. But it's a little surprising because I almost never laugh aloud when alone. I don't know why, but somehow I think laughing is a communicative act, though semi-involuntary. I like funny movies and go to a fair number on my own (for reasons of necessity brought on by [occasionally] having extremely bad taste--I can't accept that they would bother to make a movie called Hot Tub Time Machine unless that had something important to say about the subject) and I'll laugh with the audience in happy solidarity, but not really reading and watching tv alone (from what I remember).
Anyway, but then I did, last night, and it caused the drunk guy behind me to say something obscene to or about me. Which is not exactly positive reinforcement to keep doing it.
3) I was walking down the sidewalk this morning and a truck travelling the opposite way made that "ffffffftttttt" sound that I always associate with air brakes although I actually have no idea what it is. But the truck was still moving along at a good clip, and then I noticed that a little jet of steam/smoke shot out under the *front* bumper in time with the noise. I was staring at this in perplexity when I realized the driver was waving at me in a hey-there-old-friend jaunty manner. I definitely don't know him. There aren't a lot of pedestrians in that part of town, perhaps he was just offering solace to an endangered species. Or maybe he was just glad I liked his truck?
Does anyone know what the noise and/or steam mean?
RR
Showing posts with label Transit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Transit. Show all posts
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Randolinquent
Written on the back of a bus seat in Wite-Out pen:
"F*ck the free world!"
But not the dictatorships?
RR
"F*ck the free world!"
But not the dictatorships?
RR
Friday, November 27, 2009
Eavesdropper
I've already admitted on National Radio that I sometimes turn off my iPod on the TTC but leave my earbuds in, the better to innocuously listen in on the conversations of my fellow riders. Sometimes I don't even have the earbuds; I just listen. Like an evening earlier this week, when the fellow behind me on the bus was arguing vehemently via cellphone.
The topic was whether the person on the other end would come to his house that evening. It was already rather late, and the guy was still on the bus and not in said house and so I wondered, is this a booty call? Those aren't usually so contested, I don't think.
Eventually, I worked out that the reason the other person (pretty sure) a female wouldn't come over was that he would not permit her to smoke or drink on the premises. She felt this was a dealbreaker; he felt that was stupid and she shouldn't have been smoking or drinking anyway. He said, "I'm gonna let you think about this. You think what you want to do and whether that is a valid reason for not doing what you want to do, and then you call me back."
She called back almost immediately, and the conversation repeated itself, almost exactly (on his end, anyway). Then I think he noticed me listening (I wasn't looking at him, but I had closed my book) and went and sat somewhere else. So I don't know how it ended.
At the university discussion also this week, students asked me about using eavesdropped quotations in my work, which is actually something I never do. Or maybe almost never--I can't think of a time I have, but the rule isn't terribly rigid.
I listen a lot to what people say because I want a wide range of voices in my head (only ones I invite, obviously). I want to know a range of expressive styles, accents, lisps, slang, grunts, etc. I also want to know what a wide range of people think about stuff--some people feel it is reasonable to call an SO at 10:30 at night and demand that she not only come right over but abide by house rules. Ok. No one's ever asked me to do that and none of my friends have ever mentioned it, so if I didn't eavesdrop, how would I know?
Life is circumscribed, always, and in many ways that is good. My friends and family have a lot in common with me--interests, certainly, but also education levels and vocabulary, age, socio-economic status, etc.--which only helps us understand each other. But there is a limit to the vocal variations in that: We don't all speak the same way, but there is a great deal of overlap.
I think, to be the writer I want to be, I need a broader pallatte than just people I happen to know. So I listen, and learn about how the world is and how sentence patterns can evolve. If a person says "moving forward" instead of "from now on", uses "knife" as a verb, uses "my work" as a location not a project, insists that he is only "being true to my values" in everyday conversation--well, that tells me so much about how they are in life, and I crave being able to use that sort of shorthand in my work.
I don't transcribe or quote partly because I don't feel quite right about it; no one will ever track down that guy from the bus, but I'll feel bad that I stole his words (although stealing his style of speaking is better how, exactly?) More than that, though, I don't quote because I'm writing fiction and it is very very rare that the demands of the plot and characters I'm writing about will take in unedited words from a real conversation. More than just being true, story dialogue needs to be true to the characters, which is why I never take more than a general sense of rhythm and style from the folks I listen in on.
Here's another one: At the Yonge & Bloor subway station newsstand, at rush-hour, among many other people a teenage girl is looking carefully at all the candies. She picks up a pack of tropical Jolly Ranchers and holds them up to the cashier.
"1.95 please."
"Do you have--"
"What?"
"Do you have the chewy Jolly Ranchers?"
"What?"
"They're like these, only chewy. I don't see them here."
"I-- If you doan see them, we doan have them. Do you want those?"
"Could you look? If you have them?"
"We don't-- Ok." [counting me, there were approximately 10000 people in line, but the cashier was so confused she went to the other candy rack and came back momentarily] "No, we doan. You want those?"
"Oh, no. Do you know what other stores might have them? In the subway?"
"I-- No, I'm sorry. No idea."
"Oh, well...ok."
Of course, one could argue that I am quoting here, on the blog, but here I am also giving attribution to the speaker, insofar as I am able. Please hold no illusions that I am able to make this stuff up.
I don't know these voices are doing in my head besides going into the general mishmash file called "experience." But I don't have a tv, so this is pretty good entertainment for me.
RR
The topic was whether the person on the other end would come to his house that evening. It was already rather late, and the guy was still on the bus and not in said house and so I wondered, is this a booty call? Those aren't usually so contested, I don't think.
Eventually, I worked out that the reason the other person (pretty sure) a female wouldn't come over was that he would not permit her to smoke or drink on the premises. She felt this was a dealbreaker; he felt that was stupid and she shouldn't have been smoking or drinking anyway. He said, "I'm gonna let you think about this. You think what you want to do and whether that is a valid reason for not doing what you want to do, and then you call me back."
She called back almost immediately, and the conversation repeated itself, almost exactly (on his end, anyway). Then I think he noticed me listening (I wasn't looking at him, but I had closed my book) and went and sat somewhere else. So I don't know how it ended.
At the university discussion also this week, students asked me about using eavesdropped quotations in my work, which is actually something I never do. Or maybe almost never--I can't think of a time I have, but the rule isn't terribly rigid.
I listen a lot to what people say because I want a wide range of voices in my head (only ones I invite, obviously). I want to know a range of expressive styles, accents, lisps, slang, grunts, etc. I also want to know what a wide range of people think about stuff--some people feel it is reasonable to call an SO at 10:30 at night and demand that she not only come right over but abide by house rules. Ok. No one's ever asked me to do that and none of my friends have ever mentioned it, so if I didn't eavesdrop, how would I know?
Life is circumscribed, always, and in many ways that is good. My friends and family have a lot in common with me--interests, certainly, but also education levels and vocabulary, age, socio-economic status, etc.--which only helps us understand each other. But there is a limit to the vocal variations in that: We don't all speak the same way, but there is a great deal of overlap.
I think, to be the writer I want to be, I need a broader pallatte than just people I happen to know. So I listen, and learn about how the world is and how sentence patterns can evolve. If a person says "moving forward" instead of "from now on", uses "knife" as a verb, uses "my work" as a location not a project, insists that he is only "being true to my values" in everyday conversation--well, that tells me so much about how they are in life, and I crave being able to use that sort of shorthand in my work.
I don't transcribe or quote partly because I don't feel quite right about it; no one will ever track down that guy from the bus, but I'll feel bad that I stole his words (although stealing his style of speaking is better how, exactly?) More than that, though, I don't quote because I'm writing fiction and it is very very rare that the demands of the plot and characters I'm writing about will take in unedited words from a real conversation. More than just being true, story dialogue needs to be true to the characters, which is why I never take more than a general sense of rhythm and style from the folks I listen in on.
Here's another one: At the Yonge & Bloor subway station newsstand, at rush-hour, among many other people a teenage girl is looking carefully at all the candies. She picks up a pack of tropical Jolly Ranchers and holds them up to the cashier.
"1.95 please."
"Do you have--"
"What?"
"Do you have the chewy Jolly Ranchers?"
"What?"
"They're like these, only chewy. I don't see them here."
"I-- If you doan see them, we doan have them. Do you want those?"
"Could you look? If you have them?"
"We don't-- Ok." [counting me, there were approximately 10000 people in line, but the cashier was so confused she went to the other candy rack and came back momentarily] "No, we doan. You want those?"
"Oh, no. Do you know what other stores might have them? In the subway?"
"I-- No, I'm sorry. No idea."
"Oh, well...ok."
Of course, one could argue that I am quoting here, on the blog, but here I am also giving attribution to the speaker, insofar as I am able. Please hold no illusions that I am able to make this stuff up.
I don't know these voices are doing in my head besides going into the general mishmash file called "experience." But I don't have a tv, so this is pretty good entertainment for me.
RR
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Games to Play on the TTC: Snark Projection
Regular readers of this blog will know that I spend a lot of time on the TTC and that I love it. It's not a perfect system (I'm looking at you, big open U up north) but it functions admirably, and for $1200 a year, gets me everywhere I need to go, plus most places I want to go. I also love the openness to strangers and their lives that public transit gives me. When I stopped working in the service industry, I found I really missed the constant stream of new faces (although little else). Some days, the bus is my only chance to see any strangers at all.
The TTC is a fashion show, an easedropper's paradise, a microcosm of etiquette puzzles (exactly how crowded does the bus have to be to make standing in front of the doors acceptable?), and chance for random acts of kindness. Of course, that last one is especially fun to watch: how many bookmarks, metropasses, gloves, and pieces of fruit have people rescued for me in transit? I see people lifting up the fronts of strollers, grabbing the arms of blind people, offering their streets to pregnant ladies, mentioning that someone's tag is out almost every day.
But I also see a fair bit of bad behaviour. So, though you know it comes with (largely) love, this particular game is snarky. I have noticed a bad TTC tendancy has lately picked up force, and I don't like it, and to comfort myself, I have been writing little storylets based on the bad behaviour.
On most of the newer TTC buses (since about 2006), the seats in the raised rear portion of the bus are in pairs beside the windows. I always sit at the back and have firmly internalized the bus-logic rule that if you are alone in a two-seat, you scootch over to the window if you want to zone out. It is permissable to remain in the aisle seat only if you are able to remain alert and immediately swing your knees out into the aisle if someone wants to set next to you (because there is zero leg room for someone to get by; the aisle person essentially blocks access to the internal seat).
BUT! Some people I've encountered lately have not only not been scooting over or putting their knees in the aisle as I angle for the seat, they have been meeting my gaze balefully, almost angrily, even when I ask if I might please sit there. They do actually let me--no one's said no yet--but a lot of people have looked furious about the proceedings.
I don't think the rules have changed since I moved to TO--but in order to not simply start hating everyone, I have been imagining the interior monologues of these people, trying to empathize with how they must somehow feel wronged by my desire to sit beside them.
Here's what I've got, for only some of the encounters I have had.
1) I am in love! I am in love and texting my beloved! Texting is our bond! If I do not text him immediately, he might not know I love him! Textless, he might break up with me! Then I would be loveless, heartbroken, life would not be worth living. I might die. I see a shadow. There is someone standing over me, but I cannot stop texting "OMG, I <3<3<3 u!!!!!!" to see what this shadow wants. Clearly, it is less important than love. Even if the shadow is in love with me, I am spoken for. Probably. Unless the shadow is super-hot...maybe I should look up?
2) That young woman is clearly young and slender, while I am feeling fat and old today. My friends tell me that I am neither fat nor old but they are lying so that they won't have to deal with my problems. I'm not going to squinch up in this narrow little molded plastic seat, I'm not going to let her make me feel fat. Alone, my thigh can perhaps inch a bit over the seat divider and no one cares, but if that little gym rat were sitting next to me, she'd shift awkwardly away and make me feel like a big fat cow. No way am I letting her insult me like that. She can stand on her gym-toned legs.
3) That young woman has a big ass. If she sat down next to me, I would have to squinch awkwardly into the aisle to accomodate her ass. After a hard day, I deserve to have full access to my complete molded plastic TTC seat. I am not responsible for her lack of willpower regarding molasses taffy. She should stand--it tones the glutteal muscles.
4) I am in a gang. Gang members get full control of the back seats on busses. How can you not know this, lady in the tights with flowers on them? Clearly, you are not in a gang, but you should still respect the entitlements of gang members. See this enormous cubic zirconium in my left ear? See this silver flip-phone with rhinstone bedazzling? This is bling, flower-lady. Where is your bling? Ok, you have bling, but it is in the form a butterfly broach. Are you in the butterfly gang? No, no you are not, because there is no such thing, and therefore you have no right to any seat in the back row. They are all mine. Go away, and come back when you've joined a gang.
What do you think--am I close? I know this is sort of game is a poor substitute for accepting that people are a little rude sometimes, but I like my way better. Please, feel free to play along!
RR
The TTC is a fashion show, an easedropper's paradise, a microcosm of etiquette puzzles (exactly how crowded does the bus have to be to make standing in front of the doors acceptable?), and chance for random acts of kindness. Of course, that last one is especially fun to watch: how many bookmarks, metropasses, gloves, and pieces of fruit have people rescued for me in transit? I see people lifting up the fronts of strollers, grabbing the arms of blind people, offering their streets to pregnant ladies, mentioning that someone's tag is out almost every day.
But I also see a fair bit of bad behaviour. So, though you know it comes with (largely) love, this particular game is snarky. I have noticed a bad TTC tendancy has lately picked up force, and I don't like it, and to comfort myself, I have been writing little storylets based on the bad behaviour.
On most of the newer TTC buses (since about 2006), the seats in the raised rear portion of the bus are in pairs beside the windows. I always sit at the back and have firmly internalized the bus-logic rule that if you are alone in a two-seat, you scootch over to the window if you want to zone out. It is permissable to remain in the aisle seat only if you are able to remain alert and immediately swing your knees out into the aisle if someone wants to set next to you (because there is zero leg room for someone to get by; the aisle person essentially blocks access to the internal seat).
BUT! Some people I've encountered lately have not only not been scooting over or putting their knees in the aisle as I angle for the seat, they have been meeting my gaze balefully, almost angrily, even when I ask if I might please sit there. They do actually let me--no one's said no yet--but a lot of people have looked furious about the proceedings.
I don't think the rules have changed since I moved to TO--but in order to not simply start hating everyone, I have been imagining the interior monologues of these people, trying to empathize with how they must somehow feel wronged by my desire to sit beside them.
Here's what I've got, for only some of the encounters I have had.
1) I am in love! I am in love and texting my beloved! Texting is our bond! If I do not text him immediately, he might not know I love him! Textless, he might break up with me! Then I would be loveless, heartbroken, life would not be worth living. I might die. I see a shadow. There is someone standing over me, but I cannot stop texting "OMG, I <3<3<3 u!!!!!!" to see what this shadow wants. Clearly, it is less important than love. Even if the shadow is in love with me, I am spoken for. Probably. Unless the shadow is super-hot...maybe I should look up?
2) That young woman is clearly young and slender, while I am feeling fat and old today. My friends tell me that I am neither fat nor old but they are lying so that they won't have to deal with my problems. I'm not going to squinch up in this narrow little molded plastic seat, I'm not going to let her make me feel fat. Alone, my thigh can perhaps inch a bit over the seat divider and no one cares, but if that little gym rat were sitting next to me, she'd shift awkwardly away and make me feel like a big fat cow. No way am I letting her insult me like that. She can stand on her gym-toned legs.
3) That young woman has a big ass. If she sat down next to me, I would have to squinch awkwardly into the aisle to accomodate her ass. After a hard day, I deserve to have full access to my complete molded plastic TTC seat. I am not responsible for her lack of willpower regarding molasses taffy. She should stand--it tones the glutteal muscles.
4) I am in a gang. Gang members get full control of the back seats on busses. How can you not know this, lady in the tights with flowers on them? Clearly, you are not in a gang, but you should still respect the entitlements of gang members. See this enormous cubic zirconium in my left ear? See this silver flip-phone with rhinstone bedazzling? This is bling, flower-lady. Where is your bling? Ok, you have bling, but it is in the form a butterfly broach. Are you in the butterfly gang? No, no you are not, because there is no such thing, and therefore you have no right to any seat in the back row. They are all mine. Go away, and come back when you've joined a gang.
What do you think--am I close? I know this is sort of game is a poor substitute for accepting that people are a little rude sometimes, but I like my way better. Please, feel free to play along!
RR
Thursday, August 27, 2009
TTC Hand Stories
1) A middle-aged gentleman in a windbreaker in a corporate-branded windbreaker and earbuds sits down in the single seat ahead of me on the streetcar. I am facing forward, the way the seat goes, but he faces sideways, into the aisle. I am always startled by older people with earbuds, because my parents are my reference point for all older people, and they would no more stick appliances in their ears than in their noses. But I am reading, looking out the window, reading, not paying attention to this man...until he begins to take things out of a plastic bag. Then I have to look, in case he's got a book and I need to read the spine, or a snack and I need to see if it looks appetizing, or...or...*anything interesting at all* (I don't get out much; I am your streetcar worst nightmare). Whatever it is, there are several, each in an individual cellophane packet. I peer through the cello but can't really understand what the items are--some sort of crumpled while loops of fabric. I look harder and harder until the man turns to meet my gaze and I turn back to the window, feeling like the giantest weirdo on the TTC for staring with such intensity at the poor man's craft materials or whatever. I don't look at him again until we get off the car, when I realize the man is gripping the pole with a hand cloaked in a thin tight white glove. His other hand is bare--yes, I looked--I don't know what he did with the other gloves. He gets off without looking at me again, earbuds and windbreaker and Michael-Jackson glove. Another thing my parents would never do.
2) A beautiful young woman in a sleek black business suit sits on the Yonge line southbound, eating a bag of Cheetos. Look closer: it's not *quite* a business suit. The blazer's got a zipper that goes up to the throat, and her high spike heels are on bare feet rubbed popped-blister raw. Look closer: her hair is a tumble of beer-blond curls that have clearly required a heat-styling implement, but now they've started to unscrew, some rounder than others, some nearly perfectly vertical. And closer: not quite a young woman; behind her expensive narrow red glasses frames this is a university student with a posh summer job--maybe even a high-schooler. Her knees are knobby and crossed wide. She is eating the Cheetos at a great rate, as if someone will get on at a predetermined stop and take them from her. It is not a single-serving bag. Despite all of the above, as close as you can look, she is still beautiful. She eats the last cheese-twist and, with even more urgency, inserts her frost-pink manicured nails into her mouth, on at a time, and sucks the electric orange dust from the creases before she dares brush them against her cheap black suit. She finishes the tenth nail just as we arrive at Union and, crumpling the bag in her fist, she darts off.
Mutiny, I promise you
RR
2) A beautiful young woman in a sleek black business suit sits on the Yonge line southbound, eating a bag of Cheetos. Look closer: it's not *quite* a business suit. The blazer's got a zipper that goes up to the throat, and her high spike heels are on bare feet rubbed popped-blister raw. Look closer: her hair is a tumble of beer-blond curls that have clearly required a heat-styling implement, but now they've started to unscrew, some rounder than others, some nearly perfectly vertical. And closer: not quite a young woman; behind her expensive narrow red glasses frames this is a university student with a posh summer job--maybe even a high-schooler. Her knees are knobby and crossed wide. She is eating the Cheetos at a great rate, as if someone will get on at a predetermined stop and take them from her. It is not a single-serving bag. Despite all of the above, as close as you can look, she is still beautiful. She eats the last cheese-twist and, with even more urgency, inserts her frost-pink manicured nails into her mouth, on at a time, and sucks the electric orange dust from the creases before she dares brush them against her cheap black suit. She finishes the tenth nail just as we arrive at Union and, crumpling the bag in her fist, she darts off.
Mutiny, I promise you
RR
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Tokyo and Yokohama in Pictures (well, a few)
Just to be clear: I'm not much of a photographer, and my camera's not much of a camera. But Tokyo and Yokohama are both so amazing that I think it shines through personal and technical ineptitude. And if it *doesn't* shine through these pictures, I am having a wonderful time and Tokyo and Yokohama are amazing. This photo upload session is a break to wait out the rain before we head to Harajuku to see the sexy punks!! Yay! Oh, and I was right--it *is* easier to upload pictures to Blogger on a PC. Not much, but slightly.
Reunited at last--the JR train from Narita airport into Tokyo. I have been awake for many many hours in this picture, but it does not diminish my happiness.
View of Tokyo tower (like a miniature Eiffel tower) down an unidentified street my first night in Tokyo.
The crowd at the station. My brother told me to stop taking pictures of strangers after this one. Good point.
View from top of a tall building. Sorry, Ben's gone for a run and I'm useless about the names here. It was downtown and very tall--that's all I got.
Sushi-conveyor-belt restaurant. Here this is cheap'n'easy fast food, as opposed to a kooky/expensive night out. But it's still delicious. No, it's more delicious.
Uh, not everything about Tokyo is perfect. But note UniQlo bagin my hand!!
Ah, pretty pretty park that I don't remember the name of. But this is right in the middle of the city, a la Central Park. It's shockingly gorgeous, no? I didn't bother taking a picture of the crows; actually, I don't like to slow down near them.
Us in Yokohama, just about to go into the Boats and Ports Museum (wait, it's better than it sounds).
See! The Boats and Ports Museum has an actual *boat* you can run around and explore. Me, in a cabin, being a goof.
Ben, in the control room, being a goof.
Me, pretending to drive the boat (I am a very safe driver).
What Rosenblums do on a Ferris Wheel.
A bit of Yokohama, as seen from 3/4 up the Ferris Wheel.
We went to a Shinto festival in Akurasa. This is the top of the Shrine there, plus incongruous Lion Club sign. Why?
What the festival was all about was groups of people carrying very heavy portable shrines through the streets and chanting. It was very moving, somehow, when they pushed past us (the streets are very narrow there), all straining and sweating under the weight of the thing, but still so happy and impassioned. A few times, we got exhorted to chant too. Really an amazing feeling to be included in that.
The band (not called that, I'm sure) that came in between some of the shrines in the parade (also possibly not called a parade).
Most delicious food ever. It's like a ground rice crepe filled with fried cabbage and dried shrimps and a fried egg, all doused with "bbq sauce" that tastes suspiciously like soy. Ok, that actually doesn't sound good, but it was amazing.
Me, with eyes closed, in front of shockingly pretty bush.
Me, pointing enthusiastically at robot boat. In the end, we went on a normal boat, but at least I saw the one designed by a manga artist. Cool, no?
OK, whoo. That's a lotta photos. More...at some point. We head for Kyoto tomorrow for a few days, and I think internet is tres cher there, so it may be a while. But I'll be back!! Hope you guys are holding the west ok for me!
Don't give me the small talk / give me the big talk
RR
Reunited at last--the JR train from Narita airport into Tokyo. I have been awake for many many hours in this picture, but it does not diminish my happiness.
View of Tokyo tower (like a miniature Eiffel tower) down an unidentified street my first night in Tokyo.
The crowd at the station. My brother told me to stop taking pictures of strangers after this one. Good point.
View from top of a tall building. Sorry, Ben's gone for a run and I'm useless about the names here. It was downtown and very tall--that's all I got.
Sushi-conveyor-belt restaurant. Here this is cheap'n'easy fast food, as opposed to a kooky/expensive night out. But it's still delicious. No, it's more delicious.
Uh, not everything about Tokyo is perfect. But note UniQlo bagin my hand!!
Ah, pretty pretty park that I don't remember the name of. But this is right in the middle of the city, a la Central Park. It's shockingly gorgeous, no? I didn't bother taking a picture of the crows; actually, I don't like to slow down near them.
Us in Yokohama, just about to go into the Boats and Ports Museum (wait, it's better than it sounds).
See! The Boats and Ports Museum has an actual *boat* you can run around and explore. Me, in a cabin, being a goof.
Ben, in the control room, being a goof.
Me, pretending to drive the boat (I am a very safe driver).
What Rosenblums do on a Ferris Wheel.
A bit of Yokohama, as seen from 3/4 up the Ferris Wheel.
We went to a Shinto festival in Akurasa. This is the top of the Shrine there, plus incongruous Lion Club sign. Why?
What the festival was all about was groups of people carrying very heavy portable shrines through the streets and chanting. It was very moving, somehow, when they pushed past us (the streets are very narrow there), all straining and sweating under the weight of the thing, but still so happy and impassioned. A few times, we got exhorted to chant too. Really an amazing feeling to be included in that.
The band (not called that, I'm sure) that came in between some of the shrines in the parade (also possibly not called a parade).
Most delicious food ever. It's like a ground rice crepe filled with fried cabbage and dried shrimps and a fried egg, all doused with "bbq sauce" that tastes suspiciously like soy. Ok, that actually doesn't sound good, but it was amazing.
Me, with eyes closed, in front of shockingly pretty bush.
Me, pointing enthusiastically at robot boat. In the end, we went on a normal boat, but at least I saw the one designed by a manga artist. Cool, no?
OK, whoo. That's a lotta photos. More...at some point. We head for Kyoto tomorrow for a few days, and I think internet is tres cher there, so it may be a while. But I'll be back!! Hope you guys are holding the west ok for me!
Don't give me the small talk / give me the big talk
RR
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Always highlights
On the macro, today sort of sucked, but on the micro, there are always highlights:
1) On the bus, the girl to my left starts to cry. Guy to my right watches with increasing concern, nudges me, makes meaningful eye-contact, then glances over at the girl. He wants me to ask if she's ok, I guess, which I am loath to do, because I tuned in slightly earlier than he did and caught the cellphone conversation that preceded the tears. The tone of that chat ("He did? The fuck? No! I don't want--No! Man, I really wish you had told me. Well, fuck that. No, seriously, I can't listen to you--well, fuck that.") indicated that these were more tears of rage than sorrow, and that intervention would not be welcome. After few minutes of both me and the guy trying to catch her eye, our girl dries her tears, takes her cellphone out of her bag, and gives somebody hell with nary a quaver to her voice. We the peanut gallery nod approvingly.
2) I have been sending out stories to be considered for publication for two and half years now, always with the same formatting (taught to me by Professor Pyper, which includes my phone number. Never, in creeping up on double-digit submissions, has anyone ever called me...until today. Thanks, echolocation!
3) echolocation's back. And my story, "Night Flight," will be in their spring issue around the end of next month.
4) I swear the following dialogue is true, verbatim, and happened around 12:45 pm today in Scarborough, Ontario, Canada.
Me: Did you know that John Cheever was gay?
J: Yeah. Didn't you see that episode of Seinfeld?
My mind is officially blown.
New York was great / I loved it all
RR
1) On the bus, the girl to my left starts to cry. Guy to my right watches with increasing concern, nudges me, makes meaningful eye-contact, then glances over at the girl. He wants me to ask if she's ok, I guess, which I am loath to do, because I tuned in slightly earlier than he did and caught the cellphone conversation that preceded the tears. The tone of that chat ("He did? The fuck? No! I don't want--No! Man, I really wish you had told me. Well, fuck that. No, seriously, I can't listen to you--well, fuck that.") indicated that these were more tears of rage than sorrow, and that intervention would not be welcome. After few minutes of both me and the guy trying to catch her eye, our girl dries her tears, takes her cellphone out of her bag, and gives somebody hell with nary a quaver to her voice. We the peanut gallery nod approvingly.
2) I have been sending out stories to be considered for publication for two and half years now, always with the same formatting (taught to me by Professor Pyper, which includes my phone number. Never, in creeping up on double-digit submissions, has anyone ever called me...until today. Thanks, echolocation!
3) echolocation's back. And my story, "Night Flight," will be in their spring issue around the end of next month.
4) I swear the following dialogue is true, verbatim, and happened around 12:45 pm today in Scarborough, Ontario, Canada.
Me: Did you know that John Cheever was gay?
J: Yeah. Didn't you see that episode of Seinfeld?
My mind is officially blown.
New York was great / I loved it all
RR
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Who are you? Where are you going?
Outside of prose, my artistic experiments almost always deserve the fate they almost always receive, which is never to be seen by anyone but me. An exception to this is my "Identity Mural": because that thing is up on the door of the Rose-coloured Ranch, more people see it than, say, my sonnets and sketches of eyeballs. And because I'm way too excited when I receive people's business cards (shout-out: note most recent addition to the mural,a Trainspotting-esque card from Vepo Studios at bottom righ)t, some people who have never even been to the RCR have had cause to wonder what exactly it is. So, here ya go:
This is probably not even properly a mural, because it doesn't form an image out of all the disparate parts. It's just a bunch of stuff stuck to a door, really--I told you I should stick to prose. But this thing is something I'm partial to, because it combines three things I like especially: other people, public transit, and my own name. Here's what's there:
--business cards of people I have met
--expired ID of my own
--expired Metro passes
--three name tags--one that says, "Who are you?" one that says, "Where are you going?" and one that is blank
--in the centre of it all, the peephole to my front door
--a *lot* of scotch tape--I, like Ramona Quimby, think scotch tape is god
A little random, a little fun. I am fond of my mural, unmurallike as it may be. And trust me, it's way better than the sonnets.
I've got my sights on / and I'm ready to go
RR
This is probably not even properly a mural, because it doesn't form an image out of all the disparate parts. It's just a bunch of stuff stuck to a door, really--I told you I should stick to prose. But this thing is something I'm partial to, because it combines three things I like especially: other people, public transit, and my own name. Here's what's there:
--business cards of people I have met
--expired ID of my own
--expired Metro passes
--three name tags--one that says, "Who are you?" one that says, "Where are you going?" and one that is blank
--in the centre of it all, the peephole to my front door
--a *lot* of scotch tape--I, like Ramona Quimby, think scotch tape is god
A little random, a little fun. I am fond of my mural, unmurallike as it may be. And trust me, it's way better than the sonnets.
I've got my sights on / and I'm ready to go
RR
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Yo Homo
Scene: Half a dozen teenaged boys, black and Hispanic, elaborate coats and sneakers, at a bus shelter one icy afternoon.
Boy in heavy duffle coat, open, white cloth cap with strings dangling beside his face, under a baseball cap
says: Yo, most of the stuff you guys say "yo homo" to isn't even gay.
General muttering
Cloth Cap: Like, two guys hugging. Two guys can hug! That's not gay. That's so not gay.
Visor: That's sorta gay.
CC: Would you hug your dad? That's not gay, right? You can hug your dad. I hug my dad all the time. Will, would you hug your dad?
Will (skinny, sweatshirt but no coat): Well, I don't hug my dad that often. On his birthday, maybe. Or on my birthday.
CC: Why can't you hug your dad? You love him. I love my dad, I go up to him an' I give him a hug.
Will: But you probably have that sort of relationship, yo. I love my dad, I just don't hug him.
CC: But there ain't nothing gay about it. You can hug your dad, you can hug your friends. Like me and Jason, yo. I see him, I go up and I give him a hug. We're as close as...as close as anything, man, I give him a hug. Like this (he hugs short boy standing in front of him. Short boy is taken by surprise; almost falls over).
Short: Hey, man. I dunno.
Peanut gallery jeers.
CC: No, you gotta just do it with the one arm, the guy hug.
(tries again; short boy backs away)
CC: It's not a gay thing.
Short: Nobody said it was, yo.
CC: Yeah, well, nobody better say it's gay for a guy to hug a guy.
Peanut gallery jeers.
Short: Nobody said it. You brought it up.
(CC tackles short boy. General melee. Bus arrives.)
Now his nurse / some local loser / she's in charge of the cyanide
RR
Boy in heavy duffle coat, open, white cloth cap with strings dangling beside his face, under a baseball cap
says: Yo, most of the stuff you guys say "yo homo" to isn't even gay.
General muttering
Cloth Cap: Like, two guys hugging. Two guys can hug! That's not gay. That's so not gay.
Visor: That's sorta gay.
CC: Would you hug your dad? That's not gay, right? You can hug your dad. I hug my dad all the time. Will, would you hug your dad?
Will (skinny, sweatshirt but no coat): Well, I don't hug my dad that often. On his birthday, maybe. Or on my birthday.
CC: Why can't you hug your dad? You love him. I love my dad, I go up to him an' I give him a hug.
Will: But you probably have that sort of relationship, yo. I love my dad, I just don't hug him.
CC: But there ain't nothing gay about it. You can hug your dad, you can hug your friends. Like me and Jason, yo. I see him, I go up and I give him a hug. We're as close as...as close as anything, man, I give him a hug. Like this (he hugs short boy standing in front of him. Short boy is taken by surprise; almost falls over).
Short: Hey, man. I dunno.
Peanut gallery jeers.
CC: No, you gotta just do it with the one arm, the guy hug.
(tries again; short boy backs away)
CC: It's not a gay thing.
Short: Nobody said it was, yo.
CC: Yeah, well, nobody better say it's gay for a guy to hug a guy.
Peanut gallery jeers.
Short: Nobody said it. You brought it up.
(CC tackles short boy. General melee. Bus arrives.)
Now his nurse / some local loser / she's in charge of the cyanide
RR
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Fair & Balanced Reporting
Though I try to show a positive viewpoint of life on Toronto transit, I have to admit that today a man did spit in my hair. Then I went and sat at the other end of the bus (etiquette tip: the *only* right thing to do when someone spits in your hair is go somewhere else; that is not an opening for dialogue). In my new seat, I told myself firmly that I hadn't been done any harm and it didn't matter, but I was feeling slightly shaken, as if the naysayers about public life might have scored a point somewhere (and, perhaps, they did).
At the next stop, a man got on and sat down one seat over from me.
(beat)
Man: I gotta say, I really like your stockings.
Me: Oh. Thank you.
Man: I got a three-year-old daughter who loves flowers, and, man, if she saw those, she would say, beautiful.
The score is at least even, I'd say.
May you could spare her
RR
At the next stop, a man got on and sat down one seat over from me.
(beat)
Man: I gotta say, I really like your stockings.
Me: Oh. Thank you.
Man: I got a three-year-old daughter who loves flowers, and, man, if she saw those, she would say, beautiful.
The score is at least even, I'd say.
May you could spare her
RR
Sunday, January 18, 2009
TTC Tribute
It's hard to believe that the Ottawa Transit Strike is still ongoing, making everyday tasks a nightmare for so much of the population. In Toronto, transit strikes and strike threats are grounds for quick action and, indeed, panic, and I don't see why that shouldn't be the case everywhere.
I am grateful (almost) every day to live in a city with a more or less wonderful transit system, to be able to go wherever I want to go without a favour, an insurance policy or thousands of dollars of investment in motor vehicle. This was revelatory when I first moved to a big city, and I'm still mildly shocked that I could, if I put enough thought into it, go to the airport or the zoo at 2am on a Thursday without telling anyone or even being conscious en route, all for $2.75. This should be a basic right of city citizens everywhere, and it's worth getting upset that the citizens in Ottawa now lack those freedoms.
When it's awful and slushy and cold, it's about as easy for transit-takers to get around town as when it's pleasant--not so for car commuters. But certainly, life is less easy for those who operate the vehicles, so between the weather and the sitch in Ottawa, it seems a good time to pay tribute to a random sampling of TTC awesomeness:
--drivers who stop when they see people running
-- drivers who give directions, and call you up to the front just before your stop
--drivers who patiently hear out people who don't make sense and don't know where they are going, but are very very angry about it
--drivers who smile/make eye-contact/make jokes/just say hi whilst they are navigating through sleet and rush-hour and some woman is screaming about someone stepping on her toe
The TTC often brings out the worst in people, granted, just as being smushed up against strangers often will no matter where you are, but it occasionally brings out some loveliness from strangers I would not encounter otherwise. Life this:
--the man who chased me *off* the bus last night to give me back my forgotten gloves
--the glee with which people leap to give their seats to pregnant ladies and people with canes and crutches (sadly, such a polite city is Toronto is that this does not happen with the elderly, for fear of giving offense to someone who doesn't consider him/herself elderly. You'd have to be about 150 to get more than a tentative tap and half-thigh raise and questioning shrug.)
--when someone compliments me on my reading material
--when Kerry was trying to explain something to me about a George Michael song opening and I was too dumb to remember the bit, so she sang it, the two old ladies next to her beamed (Kerry has a very good voice).
And now for a list of my very favourite bus and subway routes:
Toronto--7 Bathurst, 25D Don Mills (I never went beyond Steeles, I just like the D), 86 Sheppard (Zoo bus!), 99 Arrow Road, 510 Spadina Streetcar, 352 Lawrence West night bus, and special category prize goes to 122 Graydon Hall, which is technically an awful irregular bus that disappears for half an hour in the least rain, but I love it because I met so many good people whilst cursing it.
Montreal--On STCUM (yes, I know it's not called that anymore, but that's really too bad) I particularly enjoyed the 24 Sherbrooke, 80 Parc, and of course the blue line of the Metro.
New York--On the MTA, the A Train seemed particularly nice. I fell asleep on the F Train, which probably indicates a high comfort level.
Boston--To be honest, I never knew what I was doing on the MBTA, but I always got where I was going on those funny about-the-rails tracks, so let's count it all as a win.
Tokyo--Not there yet, but oh my goodness, how sexy!!!
Soldier on, Ottawa. We transit-takers stand (and ride) with you in our hearts!
My heart only works
RR
I am grateful (almost) every day to live in a city with a more or less wonderful transit system, to be able to go wherever I want to go without a favour, an insurance policy or thousands of dollars of investment in motor vehicle. This was revelatory when I first moved to a big city, and I'm still mildly shocked that I could, if I put enough thought into it, go to the airport or the zoo at 2am on a Thursday without telling anyone or even being conscious en route, all for $2.75. This should be a basic right of city citizens everywhere, and it's worth getting upset that the citizens in Ottawa now lack those freedoms.
When it's awful and slushy and cold, it's about as easy for transit-takers to get around town as when it's pleasant--not so for car commuters. But certainly, life is less easy for those who operate the vehicles, so between the weather and the sitch in Ottawa, it seems a good time to pay tribute to a random sampling of TTC awesomeness:
--drivers who stop when they see people running
-- drivers who give directions, and call you up to the front just before your stop
--drivers who patiently hear out people who don't make sense and don't know where they are going, but are very very angry about it
--drivers who smile/make eye-contact/make jokes/just say hi whilst they are navigating through sleet and rush-hour and some woman is screaming about someone stepping on her toe
The TTC often brings out the worst in people, granted, just as being smushed up against strangers often will no matter where you are, but it occasionally brings out some loveliness from strangers I would not encounter otherwise. Life this:
--the man who chased me *off* the bus last night to give me back my forgotten gloves
--the glee with which people leap to give their seats to pregnant ladies and people with canes and crutches (sadly, such a polite city is Toronto is that this does not happen with the elderly, for fear of giving offense to someone who doesn't consider him/herself elderly. You'd have to be about 150 to get more than a tentative tap and half-thigh raise and questioning shrug.)
--when someone compliments me on my reading material
--when Kerry was trying to explain something to me about a George Michael song opening and I was too dumb to remember the bit, so she sang it, the two old ladies next to her beamed (Kerry has a very good voice).
And now for a list of my very favourite bus and subway routes:
Toronto--7 Bathurst, 25D Don Mills (I never went beyond Steeles, I just like the D), 86 Sheppard (Zoo bus!), 99 Arrow Road, 510 Spadina Streetcar, 352 Lawrence West night bus, and special category prize goes to 122 Graydon Hall, which is technically an awful irregular bus that disappears for half an hour in the least rain, but I love it because I met so many good people whilst cursing it.
Montreal--On STCUM (yes, I know it's not called that anymore, but that's really too bad) I particularly enjoyed the 24 Sherbrooke, 80 Parc, and of course the blue line of the Metro.
New York--On the MTA, the A Train seemed particularly nice. I fell asleep on the F Train, which probably indicates a high comfort level.
Boston--To be honest, I never knew what I was doing on the MBTA, but I always got where I was going on those funny about-the-rails tracks, so let's count it all as a win.
Tokyo--Not there yet, but oh my goodness, how sexy!!!
Soldier on, Ottawa. We transit-takers stand (and ride) with you in our hearts!
My heart only works
RR
Friday, January 2, 2009
Route 171
When a friend handed over this fascinating article on the TTC's new route 171, it was with the raised-eyebrow warning, "You aren't mentioned."
No one gives a damn about her hair
RR
No one gives a damn about her hair
RR
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Toronto is so nice
I have ever been aware of this. The first time I apartment-hunted here, strangers on the streetcar practically collapsed trying to talk me out of living in what they thought were bad neighbourhoods (this story ends with me and my friends in a police stations with several cops trying not to snicker as they cross things off my list). It's not *exactly* been smooth sailing ever since, but certainly enough random acts of umbrella-sharing, lost-item-finding, and smile-giving have followed my progress here that I hold the whole town in high esteem.
Nevertheless, it is particularly nice when friends come from afar and the city shows itself off to best effect. And not just the museums and galleries, the zoo (oh, the gorillas, oh the leopard babies!!) and the restaurants. TTC, York Region Transit, shop clerks and strangers in the street, dogs on the street--A+ Toronto. Of course, it does help that the friends who visited are pretty amazing, also. A+ Winnipeg, also.
Anyway, so I've been gallivanting all week, which is the reason why that blog-everyday-in-November challenge that I was sort of unofficially doing is now no more. Oh well, we'll pick up where we left off.
The next writerly reading I'm doing is in Windsor, so perhaps I will find a new city to love. I've never been to Windsor, but I hear it is far away, so I'm not sure how many Rose-coloured readers can make it. If you can, or just are curious, it's here:
Thursday, November 27th
Mark Anthony Jarman, Heather Birrell, Russell Smith, Rebecca Rosenblum at a Salon des Refuses event
Art Gallery of Windsor / 401 Riverside Dr. W.
7:00 pm
And since this entry is already pretty random, one more thing: Journey Prize Stories 20 is out now, and looks gorgeous. I haven't read any of the stories yet except for the already-beloved "Some Light Down" by S. Kennedy Sobol, but if that's the standard set here, this is a must-read.
It's not what you say
RR
Nevertheless, it is particularly nice when friends come from afar and the city shows itself off to best effect. And not just the museums and galleries, the zoo (oh, the gorillas, oh the leopard babies!!) and the restaurants. TTC, York Region Transit, shop clerks and strangers in the street, dogs on the street--A+ Toronto. Of course, it does help that the friends who visited are pretty amazing, also. A+ Winnipeg, also.
Anyway, so I've been gallivanting all week, which is the reason why that blog-everyday-in-November challenge that I was sort of unofficially doing is now no more. Oh well, we'll pick up where we left off.
The next writerly reading I'm doing is in Windsor, so perhaps I will find a new city to love. I've never been to Windsor, but I hear it is far away, so I'm not sure how many Rose-coloured readers can make it. If you can, or just are curious, it's here:
Thursday, November 27th
Mark Anthony Jarman, Heather Birrell, Russell Smith, Rebecca Rosenblum at a Salon des Refuses event
Art Gallery of Windsor / 401 Riverside Dr. W.
7:00 pm
And since this entry is already pretty random, one more thing: Journey Prize Stories 20 is out now, and looks gorgeous. I haven't read any of the stories yet except for the already-beloved "Some Light Down" by S. Kennedy Sobol, but if that's the standard set here, this is a must-read.
It's not what you say
RR
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Rose-coloured Reviews Via 1 Train Service
There are those who are to the manner born, and there are those who are still excited when the waitress gives us two after-dinner mints instead of one. I am firmly in the second category (I love each of my insurance company give-away pens with all my heart, and despair when I snag a pair of stockings after less than 10 wears). Those in the second category are stunned even the modest level of luxury on Via Rail's Via 1 class.
I have been devoted to Via since undergrad at McGill necessitated student six-packs, which are such a very good deal. And "comfort class", as the regular part of the train is known, is just fine--at least if you are of average height and don't mind bringing a bag lunch. The only people I can think of who would *need* Via 1 are the above-average in size...the business traveller could, I believe, make use of the Via wireless internet just fine from comfort class.
But despite being un*needed*, the comforts above Comfort Class are perfectly delightful and desirable when thrust upon a person (by, say, the travel arrangers at the Ottawa Writers' Festival). I had been in the Panorama Lounge before, keeping a business-travelling friend company, so I knew what delights lay ahead--a comfortable place to sit (otherwise, you wait standing in a line-up for non-reserved seats on the train) and free drinks, as well as a private bathroom.
But to get all this you have to pick-up your ticket at the general ticket desk, and when I arrived (early, natch) said ticket desk was experiencing a mel-down. Apparently, Wednesday last, Via computers all over the country ceased to function for an hour or so. My departure hour. When a security guard took my ticket voucher, though, I didn't know it boded ominous and just thought she was being helpful. "This is my first Via 1 trip," I confided. "I'm very excited to go in the lounge."
I guess I have seen people less willing to share in my excitement (those insurance pen/breath-mint incidents come to mind) but she was close. But, after we'd stood together a while staring at the ticket agent staring at her unusable computer, a bright spark flickered in the security guard's grim eyes. "Would you like to go in the lounge *now*? We'll take care of the ticket for you." And just like that she got what she wanted (rid of me) and I got what I wanted (free diet Coke at 9:17 am).
I actually thought that all the Toronto porters, guards, agents, etc., were unusually thoughtful that morning, particularly considering what inconveniences they were putting up with. But in truth, they actually didn't process my ticket voucher at all, just looked my name up on the manifest and assumed all was well, which made for a painless trip out and, on the way back, a horrible half-hour of staring at a teeth-sucking silent ticket agent who couldn't figure out how to go back in time with his (perfectly functioning) computer and make up a ticket billing for a trip I'd already taken. It could be that the Toronto agents are better-trained than the Ottawa ones, or simply that the Toronto folk shirked responsibility for setting something up for me, but I definitely think the Ottawa guy could've been nicer to me and my accompanying lovely festival volunteer in the endless period we spent together.
But ok, after all that, both trips were actually lovely, and pretty much identical. The seats in Via 1 are slightly wider and higher than comfort class, and there's enough leg room for the limbs of those well above six-feet (or for your laptop case, purse, and discarded boots). Then there are these weird sculpted tusks of pillows on the headrest. I think they are meant to keep your head from tipping onto your neighbour or into the window, but since I *like* to sleep pressed against the window (who knows why?) I wasn't crazy about it. Actually, though, there's plenty of room to get around the pillow.
Ok, everything else about this train-ride review is actually a restaurant review. The first train I took left at 9:30 am, and we were offered coffee, tea or juice; followed by pastries; then veggie chips; soda/cocktails; a three-course meal; coffee/tea; truffles, and maybe more cocktails if so desired, before we waddled off at 2:15. Sheesh. I didn't sample the pastries or the cocktails, but the coffee, soda and veggie chips (called "Yum-yums" but still good) were all delightful. On the return trip, it was 6:15pm to 10:10pm, so we had an additional round of cocktails/soda instead of the pastries.
I crashed out (slouched against the window) just before the lunch service, and my seatmate (as he told me later) and the server debated and then decided against waking me--they held my first course in reserve until I regained consciousness. My seatmate, by the way, was as nice and friendly as could be, while quite obviously making the best of the bad situation that was sitting with me. It wasn't personal; he just wanted to sit alone, and made no secret of this to the porters and servers that happened by. I felt that he should have been more discreet and pretended that it was his heart's desire to have to stand up every 1.5 hours so I could pee. However, when he finally did leave (he took someone's spot after they got off in Fallowfield) I put my feet on his seat.
Both meals were very good, though the lunch was mainly better than the dinner. There was a wide range of main courses, a fish, a chicken and a meat-meat each time, though if you are a veggie you have to order when you buy the ticket (which seems strange, given that it's 2008 and many random meals just happen to be meatless). Also, the first courses both ways had an animal-origin protein, and there were no choices about that. A seafood salad on cucumbers going out, and sliced beef on rice-edaname salad coming home. I enjoyed the seafood and picked off the beef from the otherwise lovely salad (when I first heard the term "edaname salad" about a year ago, I was puzzled, but now I like them), but it would seem easier just to go the greens and croutons salad route, which I think pleases most of the people most of the time.
I had tilapia with vegetables and tiny little potatoes cut into quarters for the lunch, and slided breaded chicken over linguine and vegetables and a very small amount of red sauce for the supper. Both meals were nice, but just by virtue of the content I liked the fish better (breaded chicken=pointless, in my opinion). I also spent some time trying to decide if the meals, which are served in little ceramic bins about the size of two decks of cards, with everything heaped inside, are the same amount of food one gets in a restaurant all sprawled out on a plate. I think it was, about.
There were services on the Via 1 that I didn't take advantage of--free newspapers, extra pillows, checked baggage service, possibly things that I didn't even know about. But the most famous of all, the truffles, I was ready for. How wonderful--I had a chocolate one and a white chocolate one on my respective journeys, and both were full of delight (er, if you definte delight as sugar, cocoa butter and cream).
Also, whatever class you travel, the rhythm of wheels on rails is a delightful lullabye.
I've seen them all and man they're all the same
RR
I have been devoted to Via since undergrad at McGill necessitated student six-packs, which are such a very good deal. And "comfort class", as the regular part of the train is known, is just fine--at least if you are of average height and don't mind bringing a bag lunch. The only people I can think of who would *need* Via 1 are the above-average in size...the business traveller could, I believe, make use of the Via wireless internet just fine from comfort class.
But despite being un*needed*, the comforts above Comfort Class are perfectly delightful and desirable when thrust upon a person (by, say, the travel arrangers at the Ottawa Writers' Festival). I had been in the Panorama Lounge before, keeping a business-travelling friend company, so I knew what delights lay ahead--a comfortable place to sit (otherwise, you wait standing in a line-up for non-reserved seats on the train) and free drinks, as well as a private bathroom.
But to get all this you have to pick-up your ticket at the general ticket desk, and when I arrived (early, natch) said ticket desk was experiencing a mel-down. Apparently, Wednesday last, Via computers all over the country ceased to function for an hour or so. My departure hour. When a security guard took my ticket voucher, though, I didn't know it boded ominous and just thought she was being helpful. "This is my first Via 1 trip," I confided. "I'm very excited to go in the lounge."
I guess I have seen people less willing to share in my excitement (those insurance pen/breath-mint incidents come to mind) but she was close. But, after we'd stood together a while staring at the ticket agent staring at her unusable computer, a bright spark flickered in the security guard's grim eyes. "Would you like to go in the lounge *now*? We'll take care of the ticket for you." And just like that she got what she wanted (rid of me) and I got what I wanted (free diet Coke at 9:17 am).
I actually thought that all the Toronto porters, guards, agents, etc., were unusually thoughtful that morning, particularly considering what inconveniences they were putting up with. But in truth, they actually didn't process my ticket voucher at all, just looked my name up on the manifest and assumed all was well, which made for a painless trip out and, on the way back, a horrible half-hour of staring at a teeth-sucking silent ticket agent who couldn't figure out how to go back in time with his (perfectly functioning) computer and make up a ticket billing for a trip I'd already taken. It could be that the Toronto agents are better-trained than the Ottawa ones, or simply that the Toronto folk shirked responsibility for setting something up for me, but I definitely think the Ottawa guy could've been nicer to me and my accompanying lovely festival volunteer in the endless period we spent together.
But ok, after all that, both trips were actually lovely, and pretty much identical. The seats in Via 1 are slightly wider and higher than comfort class, and there's enough leg room for the limbs of those well above six-feet (or for your laptop case, purse, and discarded boots). Then there are these weird sculpted tusks of pillows on the headrest. I think they are meant to keep your head from tipping onto your neighbour or into the window, but since I *like* to sleep pressed against the window (who knows why?) I wasn't crazy about it. Actually, though, there's plenty of room to get around the pillow.
Ok, everything else about this train-ride review is actually a restaurant review. The first train I took left at 9:30 am, and we were offered coffee, tea or juice; followed by pastries; then veggie chips; soda/cocktails; a three-course meal; coffee/tea; truffles, and maybe more cocktails if so desired, before we waddled off at 2:15. Sheesh. I didn't sample the pastries or the cocktails, but the coffee, soda and veggie chips (called "Yum-yums" but still good) were all delightful. On the return trip, it was 6:15pm to 10:10pm, so we had an additional round of cocktails/soda instead of the pastries.
I crashed out (slouched against the window) just before the lunch service, and my seatmate (as he told me later) and the server debated and then decided against waking me--they held my first course in reserve until I regained consciousness. My seatmate, by the way, was as nice and friendly as could be, while quite obviously making the best of the bad situation that was sitting with me. It wasn't personal; he just wanted to sit alone, and made no secret of this to the porters and servers that happened by. I felt that he should have been more discreet and pretended that it was his heart's desire to have to stand up every 1.5 hours so I could pee. However, when he finally did leave (he took someone's spot after they got off in Fallowfield) I put my feet on his seat.
Both meals were very good, though the lunch was mainly better than the dinner. There was a wide range of main courses, a fish, a chicken and a meat-meat each time, though if you are a veggie you have to order when you buy the ticket (which seems strange, given that it's 2008 and many random meals just happen to be meatless). Also, the first courses both ways had an animal-origin protein, and there were no choices about that. A seafood salad on cucumbers going out, and sliced beef on rice-edaname salad coming home. I enjoyed the seafood and picked off the beef from the otherwise lovely salad (when I first heard the term "edaname salad" about a year ago, I was puzzled, but now I like them), but it would seem easier just to go the greens and croutons salad route, which I think pleases most of the people most of the time.
I had tilapia with vegetables and tiny little potatoes cut into quarters for the lunch, and slided breaded chicken over linguine and vegetables and a very small amount of red sauce for the supper. Both meals were nice, but just by virtue of the content I liked the fish better (breaded chicken=pointless, in my opinion). I also spent some time trying to decide if the meals, which are served in little ceramic bins about the size of two decks of cards, with everything heaped inside, are the same amount of food one gets in a restaurant all sprawled out on a plate. I think it was, about.
There were services on the Via 1 that I didn't take advantage of--free newspapers, extra pillows, checked baggage service, possibly things that I didn't even know about. But the most famous of all, the truffles, I was ready for. How wonderful--I had a chocolate one and a white chocolate one on my respective journeys, and both were full of delight (er, if you definte delight as sugar, cocoa butter and cream).
Also, whatever class you travel, the rhythm of wheels on rails is a delightful lullabye.
I've seen them all and man they're all the same
RR
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Rose-coloured Reviews Cresson Ballet Flats
Shoes are a class issue, and they have been ever since the days of Chinese foot-binding; what you do to your feet is a product not only of what you can afford to put on them but what you are going to *do* with your feet. The above article mentions that, "... by the time of the late Qing Dynasty, foot binding had become popular among people of all social classes except among the poorest - who needed to be able-bodied to work the fields."
Only those who can afford to work less, choose to work seated, or not to work at all, can attend to fashions that render them less than able-bodied. When I worked on my feet, I wore athletic shoes or, when those were forbidden, Docs, which look from a distance like dress shoes. Almost everybody did, and had to--when you move all day every day, everything on your body is in service of that.
When I got an office job, I quickly bought a pair of pretty vinyl-covered cardboard shoes for $15. It didn't matter the quality, because they looked cute and they spent their days resting quietly under my desk. The luxury of cheap shoes, I call it. Those shoes, ballet flats, turned out to be pretty good despite the cardboard, and I wore them for ages. My current ballet flats are more expensive, better quality and slightly more interesting looking--they are called the Cresson from Naturalizer, home of vaguely sensibly, vaguely stylish shoes. Teacher shoes, I think of them, as teachers have to look professional but do spend their days pacing in front of a chalkboard on a cement floor.
I like cute shoes, but the voice of Uncle Alex from Eight Cousins is always in my head when I evaluate wardrobe: "'Suppose a mad dog or a runaway horse was after you, could you get out of the way without upsetting...?'" For, office job or not, I do have to walk the city sidewalks in snow and sleet and goose shit (when I moved to Toronto, I really didn't expect that the geese would overrun the city); I have to climb onto bushes and occasionally over traffic medians in pedestrian-unfriendly parking lots; I have to deal with not horses but certainly dogs and violent stroller-pushers and cracked cement: I don't have a car.
In Toronto, car vs. no car is not quite as much of a class issue as it would be in Regina, but it really does make you buy shoes in a different way. I've not watched that tv show everyone says makes you want to buy $400 shoes you can't walk in, Sex in the City, but I suspect those women operate in a slightly different tax bracket from me. I guess it could be an issue of equilibrium as much as money, since I have friends who will stroll quite casually in 3-inch heels over those medians and snowbanks. But for every one of those, there's one digging in her spike heals, and refusing to walk one more step unless it's into a taxi.
I hate taxis and like to move under my own power, so I like the Cressons. The online add brags about having a "stylish low vamp" (vamp being the leather bit that goes over your toes) but it is actually high enough to give the shoe good purchase on the foot--when there's the pivot-point of shoe-coverage is too low, the whole thing can flip-flop right off (hence the eponymous shower/beach shoe) when you try to move at speed. The zig-zag strap (a sportified allusion to toe-shoes, I think) also gives the shoe greater staying power, while also looking cute--over short distances, I think I can run nearly as fast in the Cressons as in sneakers. Good for snarky bus drivers, short pedestrian signals, vengful drivers and wild dogs.
The online ad also describes these as having a "1-inch heel" but I totally don't think they do. The rubber sole is built up slightly at the back, but it's also built up *around* the back, making a firm support perfect for stomping angrily down the sidewalk (I never do that) or climbing a dirt hill (also an unknown circumstance in my life).
There isn't major arch support inside, just a little rise on the instep, which is enough for me but might not be for others. But the insole is nicely padded and, bonus, bright red, as is the inside of the leather upper, and there is a tiny bit of red stitching on the outside of the back. I dig that little hint of cool.
I bought these about 6 months ago. I paid $70, and consider them very well worth it, as they are fare and passage to so many places.
Pete almost lost his job until the union stepped in
RR
Only those who can afford to work less, choose to work seated, or not to work at all, can attend to fashions that render them less than able-bodied. When I worked on my feet, I wore athletic shoes or, when those were forbidden, Docs, which look from a distance like dress shoes. Almost everybody did, and had to--when you move all day every day, everything on your body is in service of that.
When I got an office job, I quickly bought a pair of pretty vinyl-covered cardboard shoes for $15. It didn't matter the quality, because they looked cute and they spent their days resting quietly under my desk. The luxury of cheap shoes, I call it. Those shoes, ballet flats, turned out to be pretty good despite the cardboard, and I wore them for ages. My current ballet flats are more expensive, better quality and slightly more interesting looking--they are called the Cresson from Naturalizer, home of vaguely sensibly, vaguely stylish shoes. Teacher shoes, I think of them, as teachers have to look professional but do spend their days pacing in front of a chalkboard on a cement floor.
I like cute shoes, but the voice of Uncle Alex from Eight Cousins is always in my head when I evaluate wardrobe: "'Suppose a mad dog or a runaway horse was after you, could you get out of the way without upsetting...?'" For, office job or not, I do have to walk the city sidewalks in snow and sleet and goose shit (when I moved to Toronto, I really didn't expect that the geese would overrun the city); I have to climb onto bushes and occasionally over traffic medians in pedestrian-unfriendly parking lots; I have to deal with not horses but certainly dogs and violent stroller-pushers and cracked cement: I don't have a car.
In Toronto, car vs. no car is not quite as much of a class issue as it would be in Regina, but it really does make you buy shoes in a different way. I've not watched that tv show everyone says makes you want to buy $400 shoes you can't walk in, Sex in the City, but I suspect those women operate in a slightly different tax bracket from me. I guess it could be an issue of equilibrium as much as money, since I have friends who will stroll quite casually in 3-inch heels over those medians and snowbanks. But for every one of those, there's one digging in her spike heals, and refusing to walk one more step unless it's into a taxi.
I hate taxis and like to move under my own power, so I like the Cressons. The online add brags about having a "stylish low vamp" (vamp being the leather bit that goes over your toes) but it is actually high enough to give the shoe good purchase on the foot--when there's the pivot-point of shoe-coverage is too low, the whole thing can flip-flop right off (hence the eponymous shower/beach shoe) when you try to move at speed. The zig-zag strap (a sportified allusion to toe-shoes, I think) also gives the shoe greater staying power, while also looking cute--over short distances, I think I can run nearly as fast in the Cressons as in sneakers. Good for snarky bus drivers, short pedestrian signals, vengful drivers and wild dogs.
The online ad also describes these as having a "1-inch heel" but I totally don't think they do. The rubber sole is built up slightly at the back, but it's also built up *around* the back, making a firm support perfect for stomping angrily down the sidewalk (I never do that) or climbing a dirt hill (also an unknown circumstance in my life).
There isn't major arch support inside, just a little rise on the instep, which is enough for me but might not be for others. But the insole is nicely padded and, bonus, bright red, as is the inside of the leather upper, and there is a tiny bit of red stitching on the outside of the back. I dig that little hint of cool.
I bought these about 6 months ago. I paid $70, and consider them very well worth it, as they are fare and passage to so many places.
Pete almost lost his job until the union stepped in
RR
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Hitches
It was me who was late to the meeting place, for myriad stupid reasons, none of them sufficient excuse. I ran up the stairs, and we three went briskly in search of the cab stand. But we ended up at the kiss'n'ride, and so we went to call the special number that would bring us a free taxi. They promised to come, but did not come.
We discussed, after a while, abandoning the free taxi and paying for one, or was it too late to get the bus, or was the whole operation doomed? A girl overheard, and pointed us in the direction of the actual cab stand. We started to make our delusatory way there, in painful shoes, lugging gifts. I became so distracted by my skirt blowing up above my waste that I walked in front of a moving car.
A voice called to us. Did we want a ride? The helpful girl of a moment before had kissed'n'rode with her mother, in a minivan. Strangers in cars are bad news, we knew, but really, what could be safer than mother and daughter in mini-van? They drove us exactly there, brushed off our thanks, turned out to have the same family name as one of my compatriots. We all work in the same industry. Thank you, kind strangers.
"We're not *very* late," we posited, running up the drive. It had rained in the morning, but by 4:08 the sun was bright, so we assumed the wedding would go as planned out of doors. We ran three-quarters of the way 'round the building before we realized it wouldn't.
"Go all the way around!"
"Fence!"
"Go back!"
"Wait, gate. Gate!"
"Go forward."
We spotted, then, a conservatory window filled with expectant, forward-facing faces. "Oh, *there's* the wedding!"
"Get down, get down, they'll see us."
Creeping through the garden lugging gifts in uncomfortable shoes, we re-emerged at the front of the building and whirled open the front door, to come face-to-face with the bride, on her father's arm.
Da-dum-dee-dum!
"What are you doing? You're late!!"
"We're sorry!"
"It's all my—”
"Get in there!"
And, as she was walking down the aisle, "You'll hear about this on Tuesday!"
And now J and K are married, and no two people could have had a more splendid, generous and fun day, despite such errant friends.
It caught on in a flash
RR
We discussed, after a while, abandoning the free taxi and paying for one, or was it too late to get the bus, or was the whole operation doomed? A girl overheard, and pointed us in the direction of the actual cab stand. We started to make our delusatory way there, in painful shoes, lugging gifts. I became so distracted by my skirt blowing up above my waste that I walked in front of a moving car.
A voice called to us. Did we want a ride? The helpful girl of a moment before had kissed'n'rode with her mother, in a minivan. Strangers in cars are bad news, we knew, but really, what could be safer than mother and daughter in mini-van? They drove us exactly there, brushed off our thanks, turned out to have the same family name as one of my compatriots. We all work in the same industry. Thank you, kind strangers.
"We're not *very* late," we posited, running up the drive. It had rained in the morning, but by 4:08 the sun was bright, so we assumed the wedding would go as planned out of doors. We ran three-quarters of the way 'round the building before we realized it wouldn't.
"Go all the way around!"
"Fence!"
"Go back!"
"Wait, gate. Gate!"
"Go forward."
We spotted, then, a conservatory window filled with expectant, forward-facing faces. "Oh, *there's* the wedding!"
"Get down, get down, they'll see us."
Creeping through the garden lugging gifts in uncomfortable shoes, we re-emerged at the front of the building and whirled open the front door, to come face-to-face with the bride, on her father's arm.
Da-dum-dee-dum!
"What are you doing? You're late!!"
"We're sorry!"
"It's all my—”
"Get in there!"
And, as she was walking down the aisle, "You'll hear about this on Tuesday!"
And now J and K are married, and no two people could have had a more splendid, generous and fun day, despite such errant friends.
It caught on in a flash
RR
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Book Salad
It is National Poetry Month in April, and I believe that nation is the US, but it's spreading, as poetry only should. I thought I'd be celebrating this week by starting my Introduction to Writing Poetry class, but it was cancelled *due to low in enrollment*, which is horrifying to me. Doesn't everyone want to write a good poem? I really do, so will try to self-educate by reading lots, which is the actual point of National Poetry Month anyway.
The usual problem when I read poetry is that poems are short, I read quickly, and my commute is long. By the time you've read a dozen pages you could easily have read a dozen poems, but if each poem is an entire world, the development and refinement of a theme or character or emotion, I shouldn't be simply nodding and turning the page. When I do that, a dozen pages later I am at work with a jumble of half-remembered phrases in my head and nothing truly sustained or sustaining.
I've heard a number of good methods to ration out collections of poetry into brain-sized bites, but the one I'm using currently is to read two books at once. I picked up the next two books I on my to-read stack pretty much at random and got lucky, but perhaps some care might need to be taken in the match-up. Anyway, if you get a pair that fits, it can be wonderful to read, as I've been doing, one poem from Ken Babstock's Airstream Land Yacht with full intent concentration. Then, you take a moment to collect yourself, shut the book and flip open Mil Millington's *Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About, and read merrily away with 2/3 your concentration, the other third reserved for working through "Etymology of blizzard
unknown."
and sundry other packed lines and thoughts and images, which the quick reader would inevitably miss. Milington's book is so effortlessly, undemandingly entertaining (it is the lad lit of which I spoke in the previous post, dating from those halcyon days of 2002) that it leaves portions of the mind and soul free for this. And yet, the light book *is* quite good; its entertainment is stimulating, not deadening. And the hero, Pel, (think it's a roman a clef?) possesses a certain baffled male insight glances off Babstock's fierce curiosity and interest in the world rather well. Of course, you can't measure
'This bastard deleted my essay!' shouted...the student on top, indicating the bastard he was talking about by punching him several times in the mouth.
'Fffmiminak!' counted the student on the bottom. An effective reply, as what he lacked in clarity he made up for by bleeding heavily.
against "form that gives if you hold it when there's only you"
That's not fair--Babstock is a brilliant writer and Millington is a funny guy. But they work well together, and my commutes these days are quite pleasant. Will see how it goes next time--Ondaatje's *Secular Love* paired with...recommendations?
Ready to bolt
RR
The usual problem when I read poetry is that poems are short, I read quickly, and my commute is long. By the time you've read a dozen pages you could easily have read a dozen poems, but if each poem is an entire world, the development and refinement of a theme or character or emotion, I shouldn't be simply nodding and turning the page. When I do that, a dozen pages later I am at work with a jumble of half-remembered phrases in my head and nothing truly sustained or sustaining.
I've heard a number of good methods to ration out collections of poetry into brain-sized bites, but the one I'm using currently is to read two books at once. I picked up the next two books I on my to-read stack pretty much at random and got lucky, but perhaps some care might need to be taken in the match-up. Anyway, if you get a pair that fits, it can be wonderful to read, as I've been doing, one poem from Ken Babstock's Airstream Land Yacht with full intent concentration. Then, you take a moment to collect yourself, shut the book and flip open Mil Millington's *Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About, and read merrily away with 2/3 your concentration, the other third reserved for working through "Etymology of blizzard
unknown."
and sundry other packed lines and thoughts and images, which the quick reader would inevitably miss. Milington's book is so effortlessly, undemandingly entertaining (it is the lad lit of which I spoke in the previous post, dating from those halcyon days of 2002) that it leaves portions of the mind and soul free for this. And yet, the light book *is* quite good; its entertainment is stimulating, not deadening. And the hero, Pel, (think it's a roman a clef?) possesses a certain baffled male insight glances off Babstock's fierce curiosity and interest in the world rather well. Of course, you can't measure
'This bastard deleted my essay!' shouted...the student on top, indicating the bastard he was talking about by punching him several times in the mouth.
'Fffmiminak!' counted the student on the bottom. An effective reply, as what he lacked in clarity he made up for by bleeding heavily.
against "form that gives if you hold it when there's only you"
That's not fair--Babstock is a brilliant writer and Millington is a funny guy. But they work well together, and my commutes these days are quite pleasant. Will see how it goes next time--Ondaatje's *Secular Love* paired with...recommendations?
Ready to bolt
RR
Monday, March 10, 2008
Scenic
Standing at the bus stop, kicking a frozen snowdrift, talking about how much everything sucks.
D: So you wanna stand here and wait or you wanna walk?
Me: Walk!
(we start walking single-file, D in the lead)
D: I wasn't sure if you'd want to walk through all the snow...
(sidewalks unploughed since Saturday's blitz)
Me: This will be hilarious, and end in tears.
D: As long as we get both!
(walk for some time, talk about cartoons. Arrive at massive snow mountain in middle of sidewalk, constructed by snowplough. Toronto officially hates pedestrians. D climbs mountain, begins descending other side. I climb halfway, teeter sideways, half collapse in snow, right myself, climb to top. Descent looks far steeper than ascent)
Me: This is where it ends?
D (turning to look) Ends?
Me: It's over.
D: As in, the end of you?
Me; Yes!
D: Death?
Me: Yes.
D: The drapes go or I do?
Me: Oscar Wilde!
D: Do you want a hand?
Me: Yes!
D: So you wanna stand here and wait or you wanna walk?
Me: Walk!
(we start walking single-file, D in the lead)
D: I wasn't sure if you'd want to walk through all the snow...
(sidewalks unploughed since Saturday's blitz)
Me: This will be hilarious, and end in tears.
D: As long as we get both!
(walk for some time, talk about cartoons. Arrive at massive snow mountain in middle of sidewalk, constructed by snowplough. Toronto officially hates pedestrians. D climbs mountain, begins descending other side. I climb halfway, teeter sideways, half collapse in snow, right myself, climb to top. Descent looks far steeper than ascent)
Me: This is where it ends?
D (turning to look) Ends?
Me: It's over.
D: As in, the end of you?
Me; Yes!
D: Death?
Me: Yes.
D: The drapes go or I do?
Me: Oscar Wilde!
D: Do you want a hand?
Me: Yes!
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Peterborough Panel Post-Mortem
Though I did have to get up at 5 in order to be at the bus station by 6:15 in order to hang around for half an hour to get the 6:45 bus, the trek out was sadly without incident. I read a bit, took a nap, avoided eye contact with the guy who was talking to no one. When I arrived I was under instructions to take a taxi to Trent, for which I'd be reimbursed. I was dreading this, because I am afraid of taxis (I am not even embarrassed about this phobia. I really don't know more people don't have it--you spend your whole formative period being told that if you get into a stranger's car, they will kill you in a disgusting manner, only to later be told that it's ok if you give them money.)
But then I saw a lovely city bus that helpfully said "Trent" right on it. When I got on, there was Nine Inch Nails playing on a little stereo under the driver's seat, and when I didn't have the right change, the much-pierced driver said not to worry about it.
Peterborough is awfully awfully pretty. I've already forgotten the name of the river there, but it's gorgeous. The campus is nice, too--a few strange fan-shaped buildings, and rather sprawling (the bus drove for a long time on-campus before we got the library) but it has a bridge *right over the river*. Between classes, the bridge crowds up like a school hallway, only more scenic.
I hung around the library for the morning, got given all the coffee and fruit I could handle (I won a bonus cup in roll-up-the-rim-to-win! This post hasn't even reached noon or any literature yet! I am going to focus!) and a room with a view to read and write in. Then there was lunch, which was good even though I couldn't really identify what kind of sandwich I had. It had some sort of fish in it. (Focussing=failure.)
The panel *was* intimidating*, but in a good way. The other participants had done this sort of thing before—several of them are profs and do it all the time—and they seemed able to formulate complete thesis statements on the fly. The conversation seemed to me remarkably cogent and focussed, mainly about the role of writers outside of writing fiction and poetry. Thus, we talked a lot about teaching and learning, which I felt qualified to talk about at least a little, and a lot about critics and "public intellectuals, which is something that intimidates me greatly. I always *mean* to figure out how I could usefully review and criticize (two different things, I'm pretty sure) but I really haven't yet. The discussion gave me some ideas.
*Shut Up He Explained* is nearly 400 pages, and it's quite wide-ranging, so a lot of the things that hit me hardest--how a writer transubstantiates fact into fiction, and how artistry operates on a sentence level--didn't get covered. Maybe there will be another panel?
Then there was coffee and chatter, and I was most relieved that it was over and I hadn't said anything horrid (though I felt a bit guilty for having introduced the phrase "the joy of the text" to the discussion—surely I could've thought of a less lame way to convey that). Some of the writers went to another writer's house for drinks and classy snacks, including something that, though I ate a lot of it, could really have been anything. Italian antipasto, but with corn? Salsa, only sweet? Some sort of chutney? Why am I still *on* about the food?
In this more informal discussion, I was still pretty bug-eyed and silent, but I asked enough questions ("Wait, *who* did he punch?" "Is that person dead?") to follow the flow. As illuminating as the first, really.
Then there was an early dinner, because apparently if you are in PTBO on a Tuesday, you either have leave by 7:30 or sleep there. I will restrain myself from describing that meal (curry!) Everyone refrained from rolling their eyes when I said the day had been "a wonderful experience" (worse than "the joy of the text") and I got on the Greyhound and went home in the blizzard. When I got here, there was lightning in the snow.
It really *was* a wonderful experience, though, is the thing.
What is this love
RR
But then I saw a lovely city bus that helpfully said "Trent" right on it. When I got on, there was Nine Inch Nails playing on a little stereo under the driver's seat, and when I didn't have the right change, the much-pierced driver said not to worry about it.
Peterborough is awfully awfully pretty. I've already forgotten the name of the river there, but it's gorgeous. The campus is nice, too--a few strange fan-shaped buildings, and rather sprawling (the bus drove for a long time on-campus before we got the library) but it has a bridge *right over the river*. Between classes, the bridge crowds up like a school hallway, only more scenic.
I hung around the library for the morning, got given all the coffee and fruit I could handle (I won a bonus cup in roll-up-the-rim-to-win! This post hasn't even reached noon or any literature yet! I am going to focus!) and a room with a view to read and write in. Then there was lunch, which was good even though I couldn't really identify what kind of sandwich I had. It had some sort of fish in it. (Focussing=failure.)
The panel *was* intimidating*, but in a good way. The other participants had done this sort of thing before—several of them are profs and do it all the time—and they seemed able to formulate complete thesis statements on the fly. The conversation seemed to me remarkably cogent and focussed, mainly about the role of writers outside of writing fiction and poetry. Thus, we talked a lot about teaching and learning, which I felt qualified to talk about at least a little, and a lot about critics and "public intellectuals, which is something that intimidates me greatly. I always *mean* to figure out how I could usefully review and criticize (two different things, I'm pretty sure) but I really haven't yet. The discussion gave me some ideas.
*Shut Up He Explained* is nearly 400 pages, and it's quite wide-ranging, so a lot of the things that hit me hardest--how a writer transubstantiates fact into fiction, and how artistry operates on a sentence level--didn't get covered. Maybe there will be another panel?
Then there was coffee and chatter, and I was most relieved that it was over and I hadn't said anything horrid (though I felt a bit guilty for having introduced the phrase "the joy of the text" to the discussion—surely I could've thought of a less lame way to convey that). Some of the writers went to another writer's house for drinks and classy snacks, including something that, though I ate a lot of it, could really have been anything. Italian antipasto, but with corn? Salsa, only sweet? Some sort of chutney? Why am I still *on* about the food?
In this more informal discussion, I was still pretty bug-eyed and silent, but I asked enough questions ("Wait, *who* did he punch?" "Is that person dead?") to follow the flow. As illuminating as the first, really.
Then there was an early dinner, because apparently if you are in PTBO on a Tuesday, you either have leave by 7:30 or sleep there. I will restrain myself from describing that meal (curry!) Everyone refrained from rolling their eyes when I said the day had been "a wonderful experience" (worse than "the joy of the text") and I got on the Greyhound and went home in the blizzard. When I got here, there was lightning in the snow.
It really *was* a wonderful experience, though, is the thing.
What is this love
RR
Monday, December 17, 2007
Snowy days
Hey, we had a blizzard. It was great--I bailed on all parties (which, to be fair, would also have been great), all errands and the world at large. I spent the entire weekend reading and writing and, when I got too stir-crazy, going to the gym. I managed to lure writing/performance partner J. to the house last night, but other than that, I did not see a lot of other humans.
Perhaps that is why, despite the ONE AND A HALF HOURS it took me to get to work, I found the commute a great pleasure. The bus was so packed with so many humans going crazy, and yet everyone was in a good mood. Things that happened on the bus:
--woman speaking to a toddler, both aloud and in sign language, about how many people might be on the bus. The tot's ASL was still weak--she kept signing the zero first in 50. While this was being debated, we hit a stop and someone boarded. The caregiver was patiently explaining how digits worked, when the little girl, who could not speak, impatiently signed something. The caregiver laughed, and said/signed, "Ok, yes, 51."
--a teenager shrieking into a phone, "You *broke Jordan's nose*?? That's not good. Ok, how? Is it really broken? Is she ok? Ok, honestly, that's sort of funny. Has school started yet? I'm gonna be *so* late."
--when I finally got a seat, it was next to a man with an enormous, old-school, 1990s-style CPU in his lap. It came up to his chin and out to his chest, but when I dropped a piece of paper on the floor and couldn't reach it, he got it for me...somehow. So chivalry isn't dead.
This is a message
RR
Perhaps that is why, despite the ONE AND A HALF HOURS it took me to get to work, I found the commute a great pleasure. The bus was so packed with so many humans going crazy, and yet everyone was in a good mood. Things that happened on the bus:
--woman speaking to a toddler, both aloud and in sign language, about how many people might be on the bus. The tot's ASL was still weak--she kept signing the zero first in 50. While this was being debated, we hit a stop and someone boarded. The caregiver was patiently explaining how digits worked, when the little girl, who could not speak, impatiently signed something. The caregiver laughed, and said/signed, "Ok, yes, 51."
--a teenager shrieking into a phone, "You *broke Jordan's nose*?? That's not good. Ok, how? Is it really broken? Is she ok? Ok, honestly, that's sort of funny. Has school started yet? I'm gonna be *so* late."
--when I finally got a seat, it was next to a man with an enormous, old-school, 1990s-style CPU in his lap. It came up to his chin and out to his chest, but when I dropped a piece of paper on the floor and couldn't reach it, he got it for me...somehow. So chivalry isn't dead.
This is a message
RR
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