Top of the World

Inuit sculpture in front of a building

My work took me to the top of the world last week. Flying over the stark frozen tundra and then landing in Iqaluit to the frigid Arctic elements felt like a homecoming of sorts; oddly familiar.
I had my boss in tow who was eager to see and experience all the far North had to offer.

The exquisite beauty of this place is borne from the life, art and spirit that has emerged and endured what appears to be a harsh, inhospitable environment. We were met with the smiles and shy nods of the Inuit people who hosted an influx of 600 to their tiny city of 6,000. We befriended the security guard named Israel who served more as our willing concierge than anything. He motioned to his uncle Lazarus (the interpreter for the conference) to ask where we could find Moses, the elder who made ulus. Lazarus figured that he was probably still at the deli having coffee with the elders, but offered to take us to his shop on the break so we could check out his wares. He did not disappoint. In amongst the metal dust and well worn grinders and tools we found more than ulus - we found pride of workmanship and friendship. We had an easy banter with our new friends and they sent us on our way with a happy heart - the lighthearted happy that comes with connecting with another human being on the most positive terms.

It was -29 degrees Celsius for most of the trip but the community was warm. I happily snapped photos with my phone as we moved about the city. And just maybe I was singing "I'm at the top of the world..." (in my head, anyway.)

 And now I share a few of them with you for your viewing pleasure.

Iqaluit Airport

View from my hotel facing the harbour

Walking about the city

Contemporary art -- he's on a cell phone!

Same sculpture from a different angle

Government building - art is everywhere

Hand made ulus

Toilet Talk

There are things about travel - as with aging, childbirth, and menopause - that people just don't want to talk about; disdainful informational shrapnel politely omitted to avoid unpleasant, distasteful discussion. I on the other hand believe that information is power. It leads to preparation and helps set expectation. Case in point: toilet talk; washroom worries; bathroom debacles. Call it what you will but the truth is that not all cultures around the world handle "toileting" exactly the same way. And since using the toilet is done frequently (especially after copious cups of tea), the familiarity, availability and usability of such can have a great impact on the comfort of our travel experiences.

That long-winded intro leads me to the purpose of this post: to pull back the curtain of mystery on what lies behind that "toilet" sign in China and other Asian countries (and perhaps in others).

Squat - or not
It was 1990 in Thailand and my friend had tried her best to forewarn and prepare me for the culture shock that would await me at the first loo-stop at the airport. Regardless, the first time I swung open a stall door to find a stark, glistening bowl sunk into the raised ceramic floor I was mortified - and puzzled. Thankfully that particular stall came complete with "foot prints" to guide the user -- something like "place feet here".

The reappearance of the squatter during our China visit 22 years - and bad knees - later was not a high point for me, but armed with my personal supply of tissue and antibacterial wipes I sucked it up and handled it like a trouper. I had learned that part of being a savvy traveller was making like a girl scout and being prepared for anything/everything. Bathrooms in Asia do not come equipped with toilet tissue, paper towels, nor soap in most situations. AND nothing goes down the toilet except that which comes out of your body, thus the nearby trash basket.

The upside of the squatter toilet is that your tuchus doesn't have to make contact with any bacteria ridden surfaces. Most often they flush just like a western toilet, however occasionally I have come across the model that basically sports a wide deep hole to who-knows-where and doesn't flush. I definitely favour the flush!

The downside of the squatter is just getting down there - especially if you have bad knees. There is no middle ground here - you have to commit and get right down there in amongst the action to ensure a clean getaway. I recommend emptying pockets of valuable contents or zipping them closed where possible. I won't bore you with stories about how many times I got down - and then surrendered to fits of giggles attempting to stand tall. This is where men have a distinct advantage! And of course there is the fear of slipping into the pitted abyss, never to be seen again.

So the moral of the story here is if you plan on traveling to unknown and faraway lands, do your homework and be prepared! You just may have to surrender the porcelain throne and exercise muscles you didn't remember you had. Now, aren't you glad we had this chat?

Ruined

Photo from Obsidian Theatre Company

Ruined. Maybe it was a little ominous sounding for a festive night out with Adventure Girl to celebrate Tender Heart's  birthday. But needless to say we happily traipsed into Toronto to see  Obsidian Theatre's production of Ruined. I had been anticipating seeing this play for almost a year but I wasn't sure how much my gal pals knew about the subject of the story. A few hours before we were scheduled to meet, I cut and pasted some information about fistula and the Panzi Hospital into an email and sent it off to them.

The play is set in a humble shack of a bar in a small mining town in the Congo. Women rule the stage in this production and from the first moment the lights dropped and the drumming began, my heart pounded just a little quicker. From our second row seats in the intimate theatre we sat - eyes transfixed on the mosaic, textures and shades of fierce femininity that unfolded  - mesmerized by the slow, deliberate reveal. There were moments of shock and awe - mentions of  ways in which women have been, and are violated - so horrific that the air is sucked from your lungs when you heard the words. The pit of anxiety that is formed from the first appearance of the shunned, shattered girls in tattered rags continues to swell with each layer of conflict and hopelessness. We learn what "ruined" means ... and how these violent crimes and acts of war raged upon women's bodies are intended to break the spirit and destroy the very fabric of the family and community.

As I watched, the whole while trying to contain the waterworks, my mind drifted to my Sudan sister from Women for Women International and to the horrors she has experienced. Hurts felt by our sisters are felt by all women. There is a kindred thread that binds us together.Ruined is a story of the phoenix rising from ashes with a display of unfailing human resilience that is blinding. Or maybe it was those tears ....

O My Canada

O Canada
Your regal national anthem strikes a chord and
my heart stirs, tears well up to overflowing.

Your infinite, diverse landscape spanning from
sea to sea to sea
embraces lush farmland, rugged hills, rushing rivers,
sweeping grasslands, pristine lakes, tundra and majestic mountains.

You are so much to so many:
A noble nation of aboriginal peoples and newcomers
pursuing an ideal of embracing - not tolerating -
all that differentiates us
as well as that which unites us.

You are not a melting pot -- but a brilliant mosaic of
culture, religion, and ethnicity.
Your empathy for and care of the weakest, poorest and sickest
is your trademark.

You are the land of the free and a beacon of hope
And proof positive that a kinder, gentler nation can
preserve that which is
precious to life and liberty.

O my Canada
I am so grateful to call you home
and proud to uphold all that which we know
to be Canadian.

Happy Canada Day.

P.S. My blogger Dad and I often seem to post about similar themes ... today is no exception. Check out his moving post - also call O Canada -- from his blog, Peering Through a Porthole.

Living Until We Die

I'm down half a box of Kleenex after watching the documentary film, Young at Heart. The film is the true story of the final weeks of rehearsal for the Young at Heart Chorus in Massachusetts. The average age in this white haired choir is 81, many of them with health problems to overcome in order to participate. They perform contemporary, rock music - unexpected for their age group. The images of their determined faces as they struggled to remember unfamiliar lyrics and complicated rhythms hooked me in. Their zeal for life and love of music translated into pure joy in their performances as they move their bodies to the music. Secrets to a long and quality life ... they all echoed the same thought -- that if you don't use it- you lose it. When they lose two members of their chorus within a week, fear and shock ridden faces aside, they soldier on ... their stark reality.

I can't remember when I have laughed, cried, reflected and derived such a heart full of love all from one film. Maybe I replaced the faces of the elderly with loved ones of my own, or maybe I am reminded of my own mortality. One thing is for certain, the movie shows our elders as human beings with desires, hopes and energy for life that are shared by the young. We are reminded that they are more than their ages, their fading memories, crinkly skin and ailments. They are lovers, mothers, fathers and friends - and willing participants in life. Their eyes are their archives, storing and reflecting the sum total of all the experiences and emotions of their lives. They wear a cloak of peace and knowing that comes from surviving and thriving for decades.

For a society obsessed with youth, the message is clear, the dance isn't over for these folks - and they will keep on singing, dancing and living - until they can no longer. When I grow up, I want to be just like them. I want to die living.... Now if only I could carry a tune!

-----------------
Lyrics to the pop songs they sing, like Forever Young, Fix You and I Wanna Be Sedated take on new meaning.

And may you grow to be proud
Dignified and true
And do unto others
As you'd have done to you
Be courageous and be brave
And in my heart you'll always stay
Forever young, forever young
And when you finally fly away
Ill be hoping that I served you well
For all the wisdom of a lifetime
No one can ever tell
But whatever road you choose
I'm right behind you, win or lose
Forever young, forever young.

Cultural Schizophrenia

Yesterday was a full day ... I squeezed in a matinee performance of The Color Purple (thank you eldest daughter ) and then went with hubby to another city for an 8 pm symphony performance of music from video games called Video Games Live. I guess you could say it was as culturally diverse a day as you could get.

Loved The Color Purple - although I think I have found something to enjoy at every live theatrical performance I have ever experienced. Nothing can match the excitement of witnessing a story unfold (or unravel) on the stage, with the knowledge that anything can happen, and never the same performance delivered twice. Musicals offer the added element of live symphonies. The low notes rumble in your tummy, the theatre walls inhaling and exhaling with the vibrancy of the music.

As I sat in my seat next to daughter (and the lady who used the intermission to grab a smoke) eyes transfixed on the stage it crept up on me ... uncontrolled emotion. The well controlled lump in my throat escaped and unleashed a flood of tears. And I cry ugly. Not those romantic cries depicted on screen where facial expressions remain unchanged and a lonely tear rolls down a cheek. Not a chance. My face indescreetly contorts in a losing attempt at flood control and tears gush down what looks like an anguished face. No disguising and no where to hide save the grace of the darkened theatre. Standing ovation! Jubilation and still the tears flow uncontrollably. Darn! They threw the house lights on! I want to yell out to the actors that I loved the play and that I am really not in any pain!

The sun was warm and brilliant and matched my mood as we left the theatre (my mascara streaked face belied this however). And it was a great excuse to visit the city and snap a few shots. But my day was not over.


I no sooner got home from one event when Hubby and I jumped into the car to head to Video Games Live in yet another city. With little or no expectation I actually found it all very entertaining. The 100 piece symphony and philharmonic choir brought a new dimension to the music I hear coming from hubby's cave. The audience was encouraged to express their appreciation in ways that would normally violate live perfromance etiquette. People waved their open cell phones and handheld game players, in lieu of flckering lighters. There were cheers, jeers, hoots, hollers and hearty laughter. Did I mention the costumes?

As we made our way home I had to marvel at the richness of the day. How lucky was I to have not one - but two live experiences - in two different citites - in a single day. Best of all, I shared them with not one - but two people I love so much. Thank you family. I slept soundly - feeling fully alive.

Some shots from a brilliant, living, breathing city ...

Culturally Canadian

Years ago when my daughter was in grade school she came home on a mission: she was supposed to bring food to school that represented her heritage. Dilemma? What was her heritage? Being fifth generation Canadian, she had countless choices ... Irish, Scottish, Jewish, Russian, Romanian, French, mixed with a little German, Swiss and even a dash of First Nations. She complained that she didn't feel much like any of those things and I insisted that she was Canadian. Dilemma #2 - culturally, what would represent "Canadian"? She ended up bringing a Toblerone chocolate bar to school to represent her Swiss heritage -- and it was a huge hit with the kids!

We've seen how TV depicts Canadians as beer guzzling, donut stuffing, tuque wearing, eh-saying nice people. This morning on my routine run through the Tim Hortons drive thru it occurred to me that this very act is as Canadian as it gets! Maybe there is a strand of truth in the stereotype. We Canadians do love our coffee! At lunch my colleagues invited me for a lunch time walk -- to the Tim Hortons. Does that qualify as exercise??

As I stood in the long lineup (everyone had the same idea) I noticed that the once young faces serving behind the counter have been replaced by more senior ones. The times are definitely a-changing.

Back at the office as I sat munching on my chicken salad sandwich and sipping my medium, double cream, single sugar coffee, my desk -- littered with Tim Hortons cups - was a testament to my daily devotion. I think I drink way too much coffee!

Not sure I would go as far as saying I am proudly Canadian about my Tim's addiction; however I think I can safely say that it may culturally Canadian. I can't believe I just said that ...