Canadians are famous for being nice. I loved a recent New Yorker cartoon depicting Canadian lemmings at the edge of a cliff: 'After you!' 'No, after you.' Today, I lost my beloved iPhone on a TTC (Toronto Transit Corporation) subway train. It took me some time to notice its absence (love is blind), but within minutes-- seconds, actually-- of knowing that it was gone, I also learned that it was safe. A kind passenger on the train had handed the phone in to the ticket collector at the Lawrence West station, far beyond my home. The ticket collector said to me, 'I've been waiting for you to call!' and assured me he would keep the phone safe until I arrived. I sorted out the kids, headed back to the subway, and half an hour later, phone and I were reunited. Not only that, but the ticket man also handed me a pair of black woolly gloves. Those, I gave back.
I have lost belongings in England, too, and had them returned. But not often, and not usually intact. and never in a big city. So here I offer heartfelt thanks to my fellow Torontonian(s). May your journeys always be smooth.
Thursday, 23 January 2014
Tuesday, 21 January 2014
The Birthday Party
Here and there, or then and now?
We started throwing children's parties way too early, in spite of good advice to the contrary. (Next time around I'll know better.) For instance, we combined our eldest's first birthday with a big house-warming party, in Durham. I still remember my regret at having baked - and iced- chocolate cupcakes for the myriad toddlers who turned up. Our newly-painted walls! The still-unstained upholstery! 'Look what a lovely day it is!' I said brightly. 'How about if you eat them outside on the lawn?' We had to rouse our sleeping tot, who had been awake half the night with a cold and (it turned out) incipient conjunctivitis, in order to sing him 'Happy Birthday' and to petrify him with a house full of people. The fear on his face, and the feeling of his tiny fists clinging to my jumper, haunt me still. It was almost 15 years ago.
Birthday parties in England, particularly in the north of England, have, or perhaps had, a particular grammar to them. They lasted about two hours. Disciplined mothers made sure no more than ten guests came, in which case they could host the party in their own home. Husband and I almost never managed that trick, because we usually invited two dozen children and then expansively included their siblings, parents, grandparents, and visiting third cousins twice removed, so most years we went to the next level: hiring a church hall or a leisure-centre gym, along with a bouncy castle and soft play equipment, or perhaps going the 'entertainer' route, paying a large sum to some entrepreneur dressed as a magician or a fairy or a clown.
When I was a child, birthday parties involved cake, ice cream, and perhaps a lollipop as a prize for winning 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey'. In contrast, at the parties I learned to give for my own small children, parents typically provided a meal of crustless white bread sandwiches filled with butter and jam, or Marmite, or processed ham, or cheese. There would also be an array of biscuits, usually including chocolate fingers and Jammy Dodgers (in Britain, the cookies all have names, and everyone recognizes them, like dear friends); there would be crisps of various types, also well-known: Hula Hoops, Quavers, Pom Bears; for dessert, fairy cakes and jelly. The home-made, perfectly decorated birthday cake would be brought forth, the child sung to, and then the cake whisked away to be carved, the pieces wrapped in paper serviettes and squashed into party bags already full of sweets and plastic trinkets. (Eating the cake generally involved consuming a lot of the napkin, too.)
After one attempt to match this menu, staying awake until 4:00 a.m. cutting up wilted bread, I became a maverick, foregoing the manufacture of fiddly sandwiches and serving instead ready-made 'pancakes', savoury biscuits, cold cuts and individual wrapped cheeses. I discovered that Costco made absolutely marvellous cakes, decorated to order. Radically I included mandarins, carrots, cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, grapes and berries. I wasn't a complete ogre; I also made sure to have plenty of cookies and fairy cakes and crisps. No child was ever forced to eat anything in the least health-giving. Sure enough, there were always lots of fruit and veg left but at least the table looked cheery.
Here, in Toronto, and now, in 2014, it is easier for me. Perhaps it is Canada, perhaps it is the age of my children, perhaps I have just worn out. (Also, with older kids the parents don't stick around for the event so no one is watching what you serve. And the guest numbers drop dramatically when extended family stays home.) My youngest child's birthday happened last week and the 15 pre-teen girls who populated our house for the duration of the party (angels all!) were sustained with pizza, potato chips, and Cracker Jacks. They ate candy that they 'hunted' with flashlights in the park across the street (hidden by the eldest brother, the selfsame child I had terrified at his own first birthday party). I bought a cake, and served out the slices on the spot. Again, I offered carrots, cucumbers, and grapes. Again, there were quite a few left over. But not all.
The bar feels much lower here and/or now. Thank goodness.
We started throwing children's parties way too early, in spite of good advice to the contrary. (Next time around I'll know better.) For instance, we combined our eldest's first birthday with a big house-warming party, in Durham. I still remember my regret at having baked - and iced- chocolate cupcakes for the myriad toddlers who turned up. Our newly-painted walls! The still-unstained upholstery! 'Look what a lovely day it is!' I said brightly. 'How about if you eat them outside on the lawn?' We had to rouse our sleeping tot, who had been awake half the night with a cold and (it turned out) incipient conjunctivitis, in order to sing him 'Happy Birthday' and to petrify him with a house full of people. The fear on his face, and the feeling of his tiny fists clinging to my jumper, haunt me still. It was almost 15 years ago.
Birthday parties in England, particularly in the north of England, have, or perhaps had, a particular grammar to them. They lasted about two hours. Disciplined mothers made sure no more than ten guests came, in which case they could host the party in their own home. Husband and I almost never managed that trick, because we usually invited two dozen children and then expansively included their siblings, parents, grandparents, and visiting third cousins twice removed, so most years we went to the next level: hiring a church hall or a leisure-centre gym, along with a bouncy castle and soft play equipment, or perhaps going the 'entertainer' route, paying a large sum to some entrepreneur dressed as a magician or a fairy or a clown.
When I was a child, birthday parties involved cake, ice cream, and perhaps a lollipop as a prize for winning 'Pin the Tail on the Donkey'. In contrast, at the parties I learned to give for my own small children, parents typically provided a meal of crustless white bread sandwiches filled with butter and jam, or Marmite, or processed ham, or cheese. There would also be an array of biscuits, usually including chocolate fingers and Jammy Dodgers (in Britain, the cookies all have names, and everyone recognizes them, like dear friends); there would be crisps of various types, also well-known: Hula Hoops, Quavers, Pom Bears; for dessert, fairy cakes and jelly. The home-made, perfectly decorated birthday cake would be brought forth, the child sung to, and then the cake whisked away to be carved, the pieces wrapped in paper serviettes and squashed into party bags already full of sweets and plastic trinkets. (Eating the cake generally involved consuming a lot of the napkin, too.)
After one attempt to match this menu, staying awake until 4:00 a.m. cutting up wilted bread, I became a maverick, foregoing the manufacture of fiddly sandwiches and serving instead ready-made 'pancakes', savoury biscuits, cold cuts and individual wrapped cheeses. I discovered that Costco made absolutely marvellous cakes, decorated to order. Radically I included mandarins, carrots, cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, grapes and berries. I wasn't a complete ogre; I also made sure to have plenty of cookies and fairy cakes and crisps. No child was ever forced to eat anything in the least health-giving. Sure enough, there were always lots of fruit and veg left but at least the table looked cheery.
Here, in Toronto, and now, in 2014, it is easier for me. Perhaps it is Canada, perhaps it is the age of my children, perhaps I have just worn out. (Also, with older kids the parents don't stick around for the event so no one is watching what you serve. And the guest numbers drop dramatically when extended family stays home.) My youngest child's birthday happened last week and the 15 pre-teen girls who populated our house for the duration of the party (angels all!) were sustained with pizza, potato chips, and Cracker Jacks. They ate candy that they 'hunted' with flashlights in the park across the street (hidden by the eldest brother, the selfsame child I had terrified at his own first birthday party). I bought a cake, and served out the slices on the spot. Again, I offered carrots, cucumbers, and grapes. Again, there were quite a few left over. But not all.
The bar feels much lower here and/or now. Thank goodness.
Friday, 3 January 2014
Landed
We are now permanent residents of Canada! (Though 'permanent' means 'for 5 years' here.) On one of the bitterest, snowiest and blowiest days we have experienced, we drove to Buffalo, ate a late lunch of hot wings, and returned to the border. Hearts pounding, we stated our intent: to consummate our status as permanent residents. Overlooked by the Canadian flag and a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II, we did just that. We were prepared to be grilled about our worthiness and shaken down for proof of financial solvency, but it turned out to be a simple, straightforward process conducted by a couple of smiling young men we might have mistaken for Boy Scouts (except for the handguns in holsters at their hips). They had us sign our names, told us we could keep the pen as a souvenir, and then helped us find out about traffic (bad), road conditions (icy) and nearby hotels (available). So, abandoning plans to brave the QEW motorway home to Toronto, we are sitting, the five of us, in a Hilton Garden lounge on the edge of Niagara-on-the-Lake, sipping tea and reading the newspapers before a gas fire. Our celebration.
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