BBC v CBC

The old Beeb has been having a tough time lately. Jimmy Savile, now unmasked as a prolific horrific paedophile [what an odd suffix to employ; 'philia= friendship or affectionate love'], was before my time in the UK, so I never had a chance to form an opinion of him. Otherwise, surely, I would have been one of those saying, 'Ah, I always thought he was fishy.' Instead, my rather vague associations with the name were of haberdashery, maybe a Bond Street business tycoon. But sadly, no-- he was a villainous abuser. It sounds like a lot of people at the BBC knew about his predilections, or at least suspected them, but he was too valuable to be impugned. And so a venerable old institution is justly and duly tarnished. Or rather more tarnished. It was already dulling after encounters such as the nasty phone call by Russell Brand to that actor from Fawlty Towers about his granddaughter, and the Lord McAlpine scandal.

And yet still and yet somehow, the venerability remains. The BBC is the heart, the soul and the pride of the nation. It is scrambling now to clean up and make amends but its place is secure (though not, perhaps, all its personnel). 'The Archers' marches on (will Lillian choose Paul or Matt?); 'Any Questions' practically rubs its hands in glee, Jack Dee's deadpan grows even deadlier in 'I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue'.

Thank the Lord and Logitech for internet radio. Thousands of miles away and five hours behind, I'm still tuned into Radio 4, or Radio 3, or occasionally Radio 4Extra, just as I was in England, where Radio 4 conducted my diurnal routine ('Afternoon Drama' ending? Get ready for the school run. 'Shipping Forecast'? Bedtime.) Occasionally I ring the changes by tuning into NPR or Pacifica (hello, America, how are you?). But in the car, I can only get CBC.

CBC's tagline is 'CBC: Canada lives here.' Cute, that is, and accompanied by a catchy jingle. It's a gentle pat on the back, with a mild exhortation thrown in. Join us! Listen! Be one of us, and one with us. Be Canadian! The network's local affiliate proclaims: 'We sound the way Toronto looks.' An advert for the station's newsy 'Metro Morning' show has a slightly-accented woman's voice confiding that when her husband brought her to Toronto from China eight years ago, he instructed her to listen to Metro Morning in order to learn to be Canadian. She congratulates herself that she did, and she has.

Me, I just cringe.

I am trying to imagine the BBC making a similar statement. 'Listen to us-- become a better Brit.' Everyone would either laugh, or assume that UKIP was behind it. Then they'd send Jonathan Dimbleby to remove all their foster children.

It's different in Britain.

And the livin' is easy...

Toronto has some problems. The mayor is a joke, the landscape insipid, the great lake hidden behind a wall of condominiums, house prices outrageous. But there are some things the city does really well, especially in the summer. It holds more festivals and special events than you can shake a ticket at. On a warm fuzzy August evening, husband and I cycled the flat straight roads, many with bike lanes (or at least stripes of paint) to a large central public square named after David Pecault, who founded a highbrow arts festival (Luminato). Chairs were lined up in neat rows facing a towering projection screen which showed 'What's Up, Doc?', a movie far funnier than I remembered. (Spoiler alert: scene at the end, where Barbra says to Ryan, 'Love means never having to say you're sorry,' and Ryan says 'That's the stupidest thing I ever heard.') We drank beers (surreptitiously though; it wasn't that sort of crowd-- most people wielded lattes). And except for the beers, it was all free! Wow.

We didn't really want to cycle downtown en famille, though. So another day we took public transit. Very handy. On an early summer weekend with kids and bikes we headed downtown on the subway. Dodging quickly under the crumbling expressway (have to watch for falling concrete) and foraging behind a platoon of condo towers, we found the lakefront. After scything our way through some industrial wasteland we at last emerged onto Cherry Street beach, scruffy but cheerful, and continued eastward, along a rustic, car-free, and surprisingly un-busy bike path, to Tommy Thompson Park, and out the (at weekends) also car-free road to the lighthouse at the end of Leslie Street spit. It was a gorgeously warm long sunny afternoon and we stopped for ice creams and poutine (very Canadian) at a food stall on the beach. Then back to the subway, and home to the wagging, happy puppy.

And then there was the evening after my soccer match when we stopped along College Street, at 11:30 pm, kids, dog, husband and me, and sat on a sidewalk patio eating the most delicious gelato. Tiger Tails: orange sherbet with stripes of black licorice. Heaven in a cone.



Won the game, too.

rocky mountain high

Someone, I forget whom, enthused to us about Toronto when we first contemplated moving here. Among other attributes, he (I remember it was a he) commented: 'It's great!You can get anywhere really easily from here.' H'mm, I thought. Talk about back-handed compliments. Toronto is a great city because it is so convenient to leave.

But he, whoever he is, was right; I have certainly come to appreciate that from Toronto, it is, or can be, pretty simple to get to the places I love best. It has been over two years since I gritted my teeth and fastened a seatbelt that would be mine for twelve straight hours, flying from the UK to California. Toronto is very much in the middle of my worlds.

One place I love is the mountains, an asset Toronto notably lacks. 'Flat as a pancake,' one friend described it. So what a delight when I arranged to meet Princess Kate (a different one) at her conference in Breckenridge for a gals' getaway and birthday celebration weekend. A weekend in the Rockies! I couldn't do that from England. The flight to Denver from Toronto took only 3 hours, once I convinced Air Canada to let me fly nonstop, rather than via New York and Chicago.

And the Rockies are truly amazing. I had forgotten how exhilarating it is to be at high altitude with one's feet on the ground. We spent three amazing days, first with me catching my breath (even without paying $10 for 10 minute of oxygen at stations conveniently scattered about the resort), and then, once caught, hiking ever higher. End of September, and the leaves were changing colour with gay abandon-- that is, where there were trees at all. By my third day there we had breath enough to hike from 9500 feet to just under 12,000, up so high there were no trees, just rocky Rockies and traces of old silver mines.

And all just 3 hours from home.

Nobody say 'Alps'.

The sins of the mother

Youngest child has been issued an orthodontic retainer. Yes, I had one too back in the day, but mine was a plain old workhorse of an appliance, not a fashion statement. The orthodontist stuck a plaster of Paris mould in my mouth, I threw up, they manufactured a retainer that fit my teeth. It was vaguely pinkish, as I recall, and lasted for well over a week before I accidentally threw it away in my brown paper lunch bag. An unsavoury hour excavating the school dumpster ensued.

Things have changed. My daughter got to choose the flavouring of mould she wanted (mint, though cotton candy came a close second). No vomiting. She was asked to decide the colour and pattern of her retainer from a menu of designs (Exhibit A). Not content with the FORTY possibilities thought up by the professionals, she devised her own combination: rainbow plus glow in the dark. We waited two whole days before the work of art was ready to be collected. By now her excitement was positively feverish. Bearing home the treasured appliance she bubbled with pride and joy.

Just over a week later, the dog ate it.

Exhibit A:

What is it they say about those who forget history? Something to do with destiny...

Hither, thither, and whence

When I'm stressed, I re-read Jane Austen. It's my tranquilizer: Pride, Prejudice, and Prozac. Lately, I've been stressed, and this time I plumped for Persuasion. The plot can no longer surprise but the narrative flow and the rhythm of the prose carry me soothingly along.

It's interesting. The words themselves are our own, and at the same time no longer ours. For instance, hither, thither, and whence. They are so useful, so concise, and so lost, yet not replaced. What have we got that substitutes for whence? For thither, or whither? With each re-reading, I feel their loss more acutely. Please, may we have them back?

Other vocabulary is lost by moving across space rather than time. Across the Atlantic, to be specific. I'm trying to drag these words with me. 'Loo' and 'queue' top the list, along with 'ring' as a synonym for 'call'. 'Swizz' and 'naff' are excellent descriptors. I'm doing my personal best to embed these terms in North American lingo. Mostly, people understand me, or at least are nice enough to pretend they do. I'm not sure, however, what reaction I'd get if I asked someone whither she went.

'Toilet', on the other hand, I'm happy to leave behind in Blighty. Give me 'washroom' any day.

Cottaging

I've done it, Canadian-style. And yea, it was wonderful. I'm starting to convert. Check it out: Christian Island, on Georgian Bay, the eastern bulge in Lake Huron (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christian_Island_(Ontario)). The cottage belongs to a gracious and lovely friend who invited a group of us gals for the weekend. She said it would change my outlook on life in Toronto, and she was right. The scenery made a wonderful impression; the camaraderie a deeper one.

The Double Double

'What is it with this milk in bags thing?' asked a visiting friend this weekend. My goodness, I had forgotten that I too used to find it strange. Even stranger, this visitor is an old friend who has, like me, lived in California, England, and now Canada. But her Canada is Vancouver, not Toronto. So now I know that milk-in-bags is not a national oddity, but perhaps quite a local one. I still can't find anything good about it. Bah humbug.

In other beverage-related news, I happened to be in a Tim Horton's yesterday. "Timmy's" is a Canadian institution, wielding perhaps more influence over, and commanding more loyalty from the populace than, say, hockey. Or the government. It sells doughnuts, and coffee, and a few other things, but mostly doughnuts and coffee. I don't go there often because a) the coffee is bad and b) they don't have powdered sugar doughnuts, so there's no real point.

But on my way back from my FIRST EVER weekend at a cottage, we stopped along the motorway for a comfort break, and Timmy's was the only (polite) option. I had heard recently about the 'double-double' at Tim Horton's and thought that sounded both interesting and strong. I didn't see it on the menu posted overhead, but ordered one anyway. The server's look was enough to tell me I had blundered. I had asked for no sort of coffee at all, but two sugars and two creams. Perfect for my youngest child, but not for me. I settled for a cappuccino.

Drinking in Toronto

The provincial government owns the rights to sell alcohol in Ontario. In England I could order a nice bottle of Chianti or vinho verde to arrive with my groceries from Sainsbury's, or I could pop round the corner to pick up a six-pack of beer. When we arrived in Toronto, new friends came to visit and generally brought along with them a bottle of wine, so for the first few weeks, we did not really notice that things worked differently here.

Parents and in-laws arrived from afar to view us in our new habitat, and we wanted to serve them something convivial. Tea or coffee worked in the mornings but by nightfall we wanted (perhaps even needed) stronger stuff. At least, some of us did. Where to get it? I enquired of a local friend. 'Oh, at the Elsibio,' she told me, giving me general directions. 'It is big, you can't miss it, it has everything.' I did miss it, so got nothing. But never mind, more friends came for dinner, more bottles arrived, crisis averted.

It was in fact the 'L.C.B.O.' that we wanted: the Licence Control Board of Ontario (or maybe L is for 'liquor'). It is big, it has a lot, it all costs a fortune. It closes at 9:00 pm, it is shut on certain days, it requires some forethought to keep wine and beer in the house. I read a newspaper article this morning bemoaning both the expense and the paternalism imposed on Ontarians by the government monopoly of liquor sales. The primness of the province's imposition of temperance is out of step, out of place, out of its time, said the writer. I agree, I am outraged, I despise being forced to acquire alcohol at the LCBO. How dare they.

And yet I love to walk out my front door in the morning to pick up the paper, and not find beer cans or wine bottles strewn on our urban, downtown street. I love walking along of an evening and not fearing groups of men or boys approaching from the opposite direction. I love overhearing, from our window at midnight, cogent conversations, not shouted strings of slurred syllables. The discussions are sometimes about philosophy, or politics, or perhaps just the streetcar schedule, but the speakers are not inebriated.

People drink here, of course they do. Alcohol abuse is a problem, as is drug addiction, poverty, social injustice. What I notice in comparison with England, though, is that drunkenness is more unusual. It is unexpected, noted, censured. How different to the UK, with its much more liberal access to alcohol. Cause? Correlation? Imagination? I don't know. But I like it.

A week in the life

Lately, I seem to know my way about, both geographically and otherwise. I know odd things, like who is the right-hand woman to the school board council representative for Ward 10. The names in the paper are coming to be recognizable, and to have personal connections (sometimes sad ones, as in the case of recently deceased journalist Randy Starkman). I feel, if not quite yet at home in Toronto, at least integrated into it. I have my finger on the pulse, but moreover, I am part of that pulse. We all are, the whole family.

And I've got mixed emotions about that. There's a part of me struggling against becoming Torontonian. Why? For one thing, it's April 23 and freezing cold. Snow is forecast for later today. And yet a week or two ago, it was tee-shirt weather! You'd think I'd learned my lesson in the UK, but no. I still get fooled; hope, if not warmth, springs eternal. I want to believe in warm weather in spring and fall, hot in summer, surprises only in winter. That's the way the world should work. Or at least, southern California.

I've done a lot this past week or 10 days. In fact, I've been a real culture vulture, or as middle child says 'arty farty'. We took advantage of living in the heart of the city, travelling to every show, concert, or film on foot, by bike, or by public transit. At no point did we have to park a car. A week ago Friday, husband and I saw Bob Newhart, live. Yes, really! Mr. Newhart is 82 and as funny as ever. Kudos. I am still pinching myself: I saw Bob Newhart, live! The next day, husband left for Berlin. This was unfortunate, as some weeks before, he had sent me a link to a notice about an upcoming jazz concert at Koerner Hall, a ten-minute walk from our house. 'Doesn't this look interesting?' he emailed. Yes, I thought, and quickly booked us a pair of tickets. Only a day later did he mention that he would be out of the country that evening. I personally felt that was information he ought to have included in the original message, but never mind, I found a jazz-loving friend to join me to see Joshua Redman with Brad Mehldau. It was a spectacularly wonderful concert, and evening.

Later in the week, I accompanied middle child's class to a screening of the film 'King Siri', part of the TIFF Children's International Film Festival, held at the classy new venue, the TIFF Bell Lightbox. And the day after that, I escorted the eldest child and some of his classmates to observe a Mock UN held at the university, to which high schools from all over Canada send students for three days. We listened to mock Roman generals discussing their strategies for waging the Second Punic War. (I learned, incidentally, that the Second Punic War gets more play in the history books than the first for featuring celebrities such as Hannibal and Scipio, as well as for being the one the Romans won.)

After a birthday (mine) lunch date with husband, I went back to the middle school to attend a 'Poetry Cafe' during which 72 children recited poems.

Seventy-two poems is a LOT of poetry.

That evening, we returned to the medium of film, viewing a charming documentary called 'Sound It Out', about the last independent record shop in the depressed, and depressing, northeastern English town of Stockton-on-Tees, a town where husband and I once worked. In fact, that was the job that introduced us to one another. So we were heart-warmed and charmed in extra measure, and not at all depressed.

And the NEXT evening, husband and I dragged (there is no other word for it) middle child to an all-Russian piano concert at the Glenn Gould Studios, at the Toronto headquarters of the CBC. The piano-playing, by Russian prodigy Georgy Tchaidze, was virtuoso; behavior of middle child less so. He promptly, and characteristically, fell asleep in his seat and could not be roused. He missed entirely the singing by soprano Dina Kuznetsova.

And then today I saw the most amazing, heart-rending, unforgettable show of all: the film 'Paperclips', about the US rural south, the Holocaust, teachers, children, and ordinary people doing extraordinary things. Go see it. Take my car.

To round out the Week of Culture, husband and I watched a DVD of 'Toast', an adaptation of Nigel Slater's autobiography, a book every parent should read.


And that's it from me, here, very much here, in Toronto.

Back away

Hove again! So nice to be here, even in January. It still feels like home. How can that be, when Toronto (dammit) also feels very much like home? Two weeks ago I was in Los Angeles visiting my folks for a few days (jet-setting, me, albeit coach class, which wipes the shine off PDQ), beachcombing and bicycling in California sunshine, and, yep, that felt like home, too.

If home is where the heart is, I live in a jigsaw puzzle.

Does that mean my heart is broken?

Sign of the times?

When we first arrived in Canada, the phrase on everyone's lips was 'It's all good.' Or sometimes, 'It's all good!' This seemed to sum up a completely Canadian outlook. Business was booming, development flourishing, there was little indication of the economic hardships emblazoning the UK and US headlines.

Now I more often hear something different: 'It is what it is.' (Never 'It is what it is!') Are Canadians growing philosophical? Reflecting tougher times?

And on a completely selfish level, does it mean we might be able to afford a house next year, when we have to leave the warm cocoon of new faculty housing?

Taking stock

It's New Year! Happy 2012 to all 6 of my followers, their families, friends, pets, and assorted acquaintances. I'm watching the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Parade on TV, and coveting the bright warmth of a southern California January morning. Next up will be the Rose Bowl (football game), pitting the University of Wisconsin Badgers against the University of Oregon Ducks. Sports and wildlife all at once! May the best animal win.

We spent a wonderful 5 days in New York City. We drove there, stopping en route first for a delicious Christmas Eve dinner with friends in the charming town of Niagara-on-the-Lake, and second at the stunningly-lit waterfalls in the tacky town of Niagara Falls. Oh yes, we also paused in Rochester. I love the fact that I live in a place from which I can drive to New York City. It is such a great place, in and of itself, and also filled with memories and roots for me. I knew all that, but had forgotten. And New York state is pretty amazing too. I've driven across it 4 times in the last 6 months so I feel I can speak with some authority.

But, Toto, we're not in California any more. Nor in England. Looking at the sunshine and flowers and blue sky on the television, and comparing with the weak gray light at my window, I wonder, again, a bit, about the halfway state (or province) in which we've landed. Neither there nor there. O Canada.

Now there's a sprinkling of snow outside, so maybe the kids will get to try out the new sled they got for Chanukah. We've been skating at one of the wonderful free ice rinks sprinkled across Toronto. We've enjoyed some lovely parties and gatherings and dinners with friends. We do have wonderful friends here.

And there. And there.