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Son is preparing to leave home for university in British Columbia, far away on the other side of this vast country.  It's a four-and-a-half hour flight. On an airplane. I won't describe the knots in my heart.

Last week son learned his room assignment in the halls of residence -- a shared double in Shuswap House, next to Kwakiutl House, both in Totem Park. (Toto, we're not in the Old World any more.) He and I have been wondering about how to outfit his dorm room. He asks about things like an extra computer monitor and electric strips; I'm talking duvets.

Student dormitory checklist (partial) from Bed, Bath, and Beyond

We are thinking it makes most sense to send the bulky items, like linens and towels, ahead of us rather than flying with numerous suitcases. Bed, Bath, and Beyond is the place to go, I’m told by experienced moms (aka my sisters). I look up the store’s US site: ‘Free shipping on orders over $29!’  it says. I try the Canadian one. ‘Free shipping on orders over $99!’ 

Honestly. The high cost of living in Canada, in black and white. Right there, in banner format. I start to fume. Two countries separated by a common dollar sign. I ask you. 

After I ungrit my teeth and release some steam, though, I calm down, breathe in, breathe out, and consider that in fact, this difference could reflect something deeper dividing the two nations. That $70, might, I estimate, represent the price of universal health care, of a focus on (though not yet the achievement of) tolerance, social inclusion and diversity, of a civil society aiming for a greater measure of civility than that in my native land, especially at the present electioneering moment.  

And, of course, the heating bill. 

It's a theory.

Air Canada

Old phone box with kids, Birling Gap, E. Sussex

I indulged in a madcap, last-minute, too-brief visit to England last week, timed to attend a bat mitzvah. Apologies and regrets to all the friends I did not see; I spent my few days catching people I'd missed on last summer's trip, in between attending the festivities that formed the reason for my trip. Every minute was packed, either with plans for myself or those for daughter, who accompanied me. Only after she and I had passed through the (bizarrely) rapid check-in and security at Heathrow, ready for our flight back to Toronto, did I sit back and breathe slowly. I watched my child zigzag across the shopping mall known as Terminal 3 in a determined quest for PokemonGo quarry. As ever, in that liminal zone, I contemplated my imminent departure, and wondered whether I was leaving home or heading toward it. 

Normally I'm no fan of flying-- every turbulent bump sends my heart racing-- but as we boarded our Air Canada flight from Heathrow for Toronto, and settled into our upholstered capsules, I welcomed the opportunity to sit still, read, watch a film (*Sicario*. Good. Brutal), dole out 'lift-off' sweets to daughter, play games, and think about where I felt least foreign: Canada or the UK. Maybe travelling between the two was my true home. I tightened my seatbelt, accepted a chewy Haribo in preparation for take-off. But wait. Before we could complete a game of Hangman on the seatback screen, of course, we had to watch the safety video. And right there, right then, on the tarmac at Heathrow, I knew I was already back in Canada. 

The small glass square showed a smiling pair of men, their romantic connection signified by the fact that they have a row of three seats to themselves yet choose to sit next to each other. The one in the middle wears a cardigan, another clue to his sexuality. They demonstrate how to buckle seat belts. Next up, a South Asian woman wearing a sari and with a bindi on her forehead smiles broadly as she puts on a canary-yellow oxygen mask and then applies one to the pony-tailed smiling little girl sitting next to her. A besuited white business man frowns as he stows his screen in his wide business class seat (the kind that slip into the arm-rest: way posh). A slim, chic east Asian woman in a pencil skirt and buttoned white blouse carefully studies the laminated floor-plan of the plane, memorizing the location of the overwing doors. A stylish blonde woman in the emergency exit row nods in agreement as a disembodied hand points out the opening mechanism, and not to be outdone, a very handsome, vaguely dark-skinned man of unidentifiable ethnic background(s) and dashing five o'clock shadow smiles delightedly before adopting the 'brace' position.  

Yes, it's Canada. Diverse, tolerant, inclusive. Toto, we're not in England anymore, certainly not with its Brexit-endorsed outbreak of xenophobia and isolationism. Nor are we in the USA, Trumpeting its disdain for Hispanics and Muslims. We are going home, and, right now, it's a home I feel proud to claim.

Being a true curdmudgeon, however, I do have a few objections to the airlines' portrayal of Canada and Canadians. They are as follows: 1) I adore my husband but if given the option to have an extra seat space between us on a flight, I would so take advantage; 2) it's bloody uncomfortable to have your hair in a pony-tail on an airplane because you can't lean back, poor child; 3) except for these few shiny and cheerful good Samaritans, the flight is empty and spacious (on second thought, this may in fact reflect Canada quite well-- just not Toronto); and, finally, finally 4) no one, not even a Canadian with plenty of legroom, would be calm and smiling in a situation requiring an oxygen mask.

Unless social justice, inclusion, and diversity are antidotes to gravity, as well as to misery? 

In any case, it was a serene flight, not an eddy or a bounce, until we landed in Toronto. And if anyone is interested, daughter is currently at Level 7 of Pokemon Go. I'm so proud.

Commencement

My son has become something he never would have managed to be had we stayed in England: a high-school graduate. Like his mother.

In England there is no such status; exams are passed, or not, and kids celebrate, or sulk. In Canada, as in the US, high-school graduation-- also called, oddly, commencement-- is a near-universal rite of passage, accompanied by much pomp and circumstance. I remember my own graduation ceremony, held outdoors on the school's shadeless football field at summer solstice, in Southern California. We wore tank tops and shorts beneath our polyester gowns and sat, sweating and thirsty, while 1095 (why do I remember that number?) students took turns marching to the stage. El Camino Real High School, where I attended grades 10 through 12, had  3500 kids. No one thought this either unusually large or in any way undesirable. My sons' high school, Ursula Franklin Academy, grades 9 to 12 has about 500 kids. It's the largest institution our kids have ever attended.

UFA's ceremony took place in a large, nicely temperate auditorium, with plenty of room for families and friends of the 125 graduating students. The girls wore summery dresses under their gowns, and the boys, for the most part, shirts and ties (and trousers). I admit to shedding the odd tear, but truly husband and I enjoyed the whole thing tremendously: the playing of Pomp and Circumstance (of course), the flock of black robes and sea of mortarboards, the good-hearted speeches (Dr. Ursula Franklin sent a personal message), the suspense of the awards (there were many; son received enough to make us beam, in particular 'The Socratic Thinker Award', which I have renamed his 'License to Argue' medal). We were treated to an excellent musical interlude on the cello by son's super-talented friend, and then a magic show by another boy in which the trick worked (almost) perfectly. There was the time-honored Tassel Ceremony, in which the tassels on the mortarboards are flicked in unison from the left side to the right, signifying the graduates' new status. There was posing for photos with endless configurations of friends and relatives and strangers (again, ma'am, very sorry, I deleted it, honest).

Afterward we went to Fran's Diner, our family's first-ever restaurant in Toronto, situated next to the hotel where we stayed seven years ago. The university had flown us from Brighton to visit this flat and landlocked city in the northern country that might become our home. Lucky for them, the gamble paid off, and a year later we made the move. There were of course other factors influencing our decision, but Fran's played its part. In addition to its great burgers, it stays open 24 hours-- unlike anywhere in Brighton. And even with only 125 kids, graduation lasted well late. Dining out at midnight in Hove? I think not.

So, the boy's school days are done, and the next stage begins. Our young man has decided to head west, to the University of British Columbia, where he will be one of forty-two thousand other students. A big pond. A few years from now, that is a graduation that may take some time. I wonder if there's a Fran's in Vancouver.

Bat Mitzvah miracles

I like to play to my strengths. Who doesn't? I'm good at a number of things, and after a cup of coffee, I might be able think of a couple. What I do know, even with nothing more stimulating than morning tea, is that event planning is not one of my particular areas of expertise. Still, organizing my daughter's bat mitzvah should have been pretty straightforward after the experience I had gained from celebrating her two elder brothers' passages into ritual adulthood.  Those went smoothly, didn't they?

I poured coffee. My memory stirred.

Oh, right.

They were both beautiful events. With glitches. The first one, five years ago, mere months after our moving to Canada, involved a very steep learning curve just to cope with the basics: invitations, a venue, an officiant. The seating plan for dinner was very nearly the death of me. One brother-in-law was a no-show due to an expired passport plus an international border between  California and Canada. We missed him for himself and also for his upper-body strength, as he was meant to be 'hagba', the one who lifts the Torah scroll and pirouettes prettily in front of the congregation.  Luckily, our friend David from England agreed to step in. It was tricky due to the time of year and consequently unequal weights of the two parts of the scroll. Suffice it to say disaster was narrowly avoided. (And if David has taken to doing one-armed press-ups in recent years, that may be why.)

At next son's bar mitzvah, we had some knowledge and experience under our belts. However, husband's aunt, who had come from England for the event, fell and broke her hip the day before the ceremony, which was truly terrible. She spent the next day, in fact the next week, in hospital in Toronto, undergoing surgery (eventually). Fortunately, very fortunately, my father-in-law, brother of said great-aunt, had reminded her to take out travel insurance before embarking on the trip. "Oh, I won't need that," aunt said blithely. Father-in-law, a former solicitor, said firmly, "Do it." So, while our son's great-aunt missed the event she had flown to attend, and (like many) has never really recovered from the fracture and its consequences, at least her expenses were paid. These included a stretch limo to the airport and an upgrade to first class for great-aunt and for one companion (mother-in-law, as it turned out; father-in-law got left back in economy).

So now it's daughter's bat mitzvah. We thought: third time lucky. Surely, we had earned the right to some smooth sailing.

We thought wrong.

On top of all the usual kerfuffle, the things we had actually learned from experience, like deciding honours and other ceremonial issues, the iniquitous seating charts and centre-pieces, we faced completely new and unpredictable challenges. First amongst them: a month beforehand, the fridge broke down and could not be fixed by either of two repairmen. Once its death warrant had been signed, we ordered a new one. "Oh, that's a great choice. It will be here in two weeks," said Denis, at the large, highly-recommended appliance store we chose. Two weeks seemed long. I wondered whether they grew the refrigerators from seed, or harvested parts from fields in Saskatchewan, or Szechuan, and then assembled them by hand, like a jigsaw puzzle. But two weeks gave us just enough time before the out-of-town family and friends arrived. In the meantime, we borrowed a cooler and bought many bags of ice.

After two weeks, sure enough, Denis called us. "Good news! Your fridge is here!" Three days to D-Day. Whew.

"Great!" I said. "Bring it by."

"Oh, no," said Denis. "We don't have any delivery spots until next week."

I muted the phone against the sound of head-banging. "Denis," I said, calmly, at least at first. "I explained this to you. I need a working fridge in my kitchen and I need it before Friday."

To make the excruciatingly long story short(er), in the end, Denis's distribution manager and I had a pleasant chat in which he agreed to deliver the item on Thursday in exchange for a good review online, a result which (further) undermines my faith in reviews.

I made plans to be home Thursday morning. Unfortunately, at that exact time I found myself in the emergency room of our local hospital, a place one never really wants to be, but in particular, not two days before one's daughter's bat mitzvah. Husband escorted me there at 4 a.m., but had to abandon me in a cubicle awaiting my fate sevreal hours later. while he rushed home to take delivery of the fridge. Ananda, our true and wonderful friend who came all the way from London in order to work like a skivvy for week leading up to the bat mitzvah, helped with the shifting of furniture required to get the old appliance out and the new one in. (She helped with so much else too.)

I underwent various unpleasant diagnostic procedures and sat waiting to hear my fate. Meanwhile, my father called me from Los Angeles. Odd, I thought, since he was meant to be on a plane heading for Toronto.

"How are you?" I asked, trying to sound cheerful and to mask the noise of medical machinery and human woe in the background.

"I'm not doing very well," he said, tremulously, and my heart lurched. "I've lost my passport."

How he lost the passport remains exceedingly unclear. In brief, it was there, on his dresser, and then it wasn't. The number of suspects is limited and, all things considered, best if we never identify the culprit. My mother decided to ditch my dad and was at that moment on her way to the airport; at least one of them would attend their youngest grandchild's bat mitzvah. My poor father! He loves his family and hates to miss out on events.  I looked at my watch. We still had almost 48 hours till the ceremony. Sisters, nieces and nephew, my mother and I went into high gear and with everyone pulling together, including my father himself, an airport car-service, and eventually an Uber driver named Emma, accompanied by at least fifty phone calls, three cancelled and re-booked reservations, and a hundred-odd text messages, he made the last possible flight from LA to Toronto: the red-eye. At 2:00 am in Toronto, 11:00 pm at LAX, he and I texted back and forth: "It looks foggy." "Still on schedule." His plane landed promptly the next morning, and he walked into the shul just as the Torah service started. In spite of having agreed, days earlier, to the rabbi's request that we keep the family reunions in the aisle to a minimum, this one, we said, had to be an exception. (Our gracious rabbi understood.)  And it was indeed exceptional. With tears and with joy, we settled to watch my thirteen-year-old daughter become an adult. She did so with grace, aplomb, maturity and beauty. She was perfect.

Afterward, at the party, our daughter and her friends danced and jumped around and dressed up in silly wigs. They spun in circles, competing to see who could hold their arms out the longest, then collapsed in laughter. They raided the candy buffet with abandon, aiming in particular to acquire ring-pops. Perhaps the bat mitzvah girl is not quite an adult yet-- and thank goodness. Baby steps, for her and for me.

And oh yes, my diagnosis. The doctor eventually appeared and said, "It's the best possible outcome you could hope for with these symptoms." It has a multi-syllabic Greek name that took me longer to learn than the chanting I had to do in Hebrew, but the end result was a prescription for watchful waiting. I watched, and waited, and I'm fine. And so was the whole bat mitzvah weekend-- week really-- in fact it was more than fine. It was beautiful. Some very special Toronto friends pitched in to help when it seemed everything was about to collapse, and they made me realize how entrenched we are in a wonderful community, which is a pretty lovely thing to realize.

We were reminded (not that we needed it) of our amazing friends and family who don't live in Toronto, too. To square the circle, Yael, David's wife, played the role of 'hagba', five years after her husband's heroic act. She had it easy, though: at this time of year, the Torah is evenly distributed across its two spindles. (Plus Yael goes to the gym.)

So, our last bar/t mitzvah, and now it's all over! Just the thank-you notes and the photo album to organize, and, of course, that review of the refrigerator to post. Let's see.  "I love it, I adore it, I am crazy about it."

You can take that to the bank.

Member of the Press

It's a pretty catchy title for my first piece of journalism in Canada, if I do say so myself:

The article graces page 5 of the Harbord Village Newsletter, spring edition. (There is no summer or winter issue.) The Times, it's not. My assignment was to cover a proposed pilot project to install a separated bike lane on a stretch of road near us, Bloor Street. It's a contentious plan I've been hearing about since we first moved to Toronto six (SIX!) years ago. In fact if I cycle past the front window of our former rental house, now empty and destined for demolition, I can still see my 'Bike Lanes on Bloor' campaign sticker.

I'm not quite an ace newshound (yet), but nor am I a total novice. Far from it. In elementary school I wrote an article for the Platt Ranch Reporter (or something like that) about child TV actors. The most exciting parts of that for me were 1) getting to interview Erin and Diane Murphy, the twins who played 'Tabitha' on my favourite show, Bewitched, and 2) being permitted to operate the mimeograph machine to print the paper. I still remember the sweetly poisonous smell of the ink. A few years later, in junior high, I took a journalism class. I don't recall writing any articles, but I learned about 'ems' and 'ens' and how to write headlines. It was complicated, using up the right amount of space without running over. A little like Twitter.

Neither of those journalistic excursions allowed me to claim any special privileges (though Mrs. Murphy did serve us lemonade and cookies during the interview). My civilian identity remained intact. The article about bike lanes, however, led me to attend a press conference held by two city councillors. It was perhaps less that I 'attended' and more that I gatecrashed the gathering with my dog in tow on the way home from delivering my daughter to school. I listened to Councillors Joe Cressy and Mike Layton, I took notes, I hauled the dog's leash out from between other reporters' legs. When question time was announced, I raised my hand. That's not how reporters do it, it turns out. They just shout. So I waited for a lull and said, "I have a question about bicycle parking."

"I'm afraid we're only taking questions from members of the press," said the councillor representing my ward, Mr. Cressy. I guess the dog and the bike and the fact that I hadn't yet brushed my hair gave him the wrong impression of me.

"I am a member of the press," I told him, attempting dignity while my cockapoo humped my leg. "I am writing for the Harbord Village Newsletter."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Joe Cressy back-pedalled, with a small laugh,  his own stab at grace. "Go ahead."

"Sit," I said. The dog did; the councillor stood his ground as I asked my question, to which the answer was "no." I said thank you, collected up the dog and my bike, and rode to the park.

The good news is that city council has passed the motion to pilot the bike lane project at long last. I credit the two city councillors for its success, and I like to think the dog helped motivate them just a bit. He is awfully cute.

In case anyone has finished reading the back of their cereal packet and is interested in The BLoB Approaches, or more interesting news from the wilds of Harbord Village:
 http://harbordvillage.com/files/HVRA_NL_Spring2016_.pdf

Ye Olde Soccer Mom

Last Saturday, at the end of my soccer practice, as we all changed out of our indoor shoes (yep, still playing indoors at the end of April) a young woman with a blond pony-tail mentioned that she would be celebrating her birthday the next day.

“Oh, how old?" asked another player, with short black hair.

"Twenty-eight," said the first.

It turned out that the short-haired one was the same age.

“Well, at least we’re not thirty yet,” said pony-tail, laughing. Then she glanced at me and said, “Oh, sorry.” 

There was no need for them to apologize. I've been around the pitch.

I am a soccer mom. In England this was called being a 'football mum', or equally, a 'mum'. Here in Canada the equivalent is a hockey mom, and I count my lucky stars I'm not one of them. I couldn't cope with the amount of kit, the shockingly early hours, and the ice. This country is cold enough without adding insult to hard, slippery injury.

But long before I was a soccer mom, I was a soccer player. I began my playing career as an undergraduate on a year-abroad scheme at the University of Sussex. All the foreign exchange students were encouraged to join clubs, which, along with bars, formed the backbone of UK undergraduate social life. I enrolled in Ceramics first, hankering to try the throwing wheel, but after the first couple of sessions I had failed to create an object I desired. Everyone else was ready for firing and all I had was a wet lump of clay. "I don't think you belong here," said the instructor, exasperated. "Try a different club." I wiped my greasy hands on a filthy towel and gave up artistic pretensions.

Instead I joined the Sussex University Ladies football side. In that long-ago era, very few ladies, girls, or women in England played the sport, so even with zero ability, my presence was warmly welcomed. I forgot all about the throwing wheel and threw myself into learning new skills, like dribbling and kicking. I gained experience quickly. We were regularly short of team members so that rather than warming the bench as might have been expected, I played nearly all of every game.  I missed the ball more often than I connected, but I could run, often full tilt into the opposition.  "You do a lot of damage to the other team, considering your lack of skill," my coach said to me admiringly, toward the end of the season. I fell in love with the game. The coach had recently defected to England from Hungary and in addition to being brilliant at football, it turned out he had a love of the arts and a wicked sense of humor. "I'm even funnier in Hungarian," he assured me. I fell in love with him too. 

Everywhere I've lived since, I have played the beautiful game. It could almost be a unifying thread of my patchwork life: after Brighton, Berkeley (where I joined the university women's B team); then Bandung. Also, non-alliteratively, I played in Philadelphia, where I suffered a knee injury that kept me off the pitch for a year, and in Durham. After several years in Durham, I developed another condition that interfered with my playing: repeated pregnancy.

Pregnancies became children. In 2004 our family of five moved south, to Brighton, where I transformed fully from player to mother of players. My role became that of standing on the sidelines, often in gusting rain, cheering wetly, or sheltering in the clubhouse, selling lukewarm tea to other parents. I washed the children's football kit, and bought them new boots when they outgrew the old ones. I rescued mis-kicked balls from neighbours' gardens and rooftops. I shivered at the local park while they fashioned a goal from discarded coats and played 'Wembley', or as they called it, 'Wemberley.'

After yet more years, we moved to Toronto and began to learn a new country. We all struggled to adjust but I was particularly unmoored, having no job and no school to ground me, no structure. An acquaintance, now a friend, another anthropologist, asked me to join her soccer team, Genesis. "Come play," she urged. I demurred; how could I, after all these years, get back on the pitch? "Join us for one practice," she said, so I did, just the once, I said. And I loved it. I joined the team. Despite my advancing years, I play once a week, sometimes a game, sometimes a practice. It can take a lot out of me and there's a limit to how much I’m willing to suffer these days. I’m often bruised and battered, and I wear out faster than I did, but-- thus far anyway-- I keep going back for more. 

So, to the young women at last week's practice who were still on the left side of thirty, I said, cheerfully, “No worries. That decade is long past." I shocked them by telling them my age.

"Whoa!" they chorused.

“And you’re out there playing with us?” asked pony-tail. 

“When I'm old, I want to be like you!” said the one with the pixie cut. "Oh. I mean..." And she trailed off.

I knew what she meant, and I knew it was a compliment, and for a few moments I basked in being a role model. Then the glow faded, I gathered up my water bottle and my shin-guards and my ankle brace, and headed home to sort out the kids’ team sign-ups for this season. And to apply ice to my bruises. Ice is good for that.

The Trouble with U

It's also the trouble with 'Z'. Canada is on the fence in terms of its spellings. I have adopted a strategy of randomness when I write, because as far as I can tell, so has the rest of the country. Sometimes they go American, sometimes British. At work I belong to a research group called 'Team Optimize', but I wrote a 'cheque' for a charity contribution. I have described previously the sign at our doctor's office saying 'Medical Centre' which has next door to it one reading 'Travel Center'. (Actually the travel center has since closed down, going the way of cheques/checks.)

Yesterday my daughter texted me from middle school to ask who had made her lunch. I did, I replied. Usually it's her father, but for his birthday, I had wanted to be nice and give him a break. "I don't like it," daughter complained of my cheese, jam, and matzo concoction (it's Passover). "It tastes like farts in my mouth."

I reported this to my husband, also by text. He asked, "Is that bad?" I replied, "Well, it's not a Ben and Jerry's flavor." Red underline. I tried again. "Flavour." Just for fun, I cut-and-pasted into email. This time 'flavor' won.

Canada. Please.

Lynne Murphy at the University of Sussex writes a tremendously entertaining and informative blog that I've mentioned before (I mention it a lot)  called 'Separated by a Common Language' http://separatedbyacommonlanguage.blogspot.ca/ which discusses the Atlantic division of English. However her blog focuses on linguistic differences between the UK and the US. Canada, as in so many other domains, is left hanging, like a Floridian chad, though a lot colder. High of 7C today, by the way, at the end of April. I'm not bitter, no sir, not me. I have been channelling my inner Scarlet O'Hara: "I shall never be frozen again." Until next winter.

But I digress. And now I make my egress.

Saving Helen: #TheArchers

I'm pretty excited because I've just found out what one of my birthday presents will be: a tee-shirt reading "Free the Blossom Hill One".  Below the words is an image of a casserole dish. The One in question is Helen Archer, a fictional character on a radio soap opera that's been running on BBC Radio 4 since 1950. The programme's tagline is 'an everyday story of country folk' and recently, that's a chilling thought. Helen Archer, resident of Blossom Hill Cottage, in the (pretend) village of Ambridge, has for the last year or so been gaslighted and physically abused by her new husband, hashtag #EvilRob Titchener. Devoted Archers listeners have heard what Helen's mostly oblivious family and friends did not. We have shouted ineffectively at the radio, but much more effectively, we have expressed our concerns, comments, cracks, and quips to each other on Twitter. We're the tweetalongers, and we had our finest moment last week when Helen finally decided to leave the bastard. But it all went sour when, after serving #EvilRob a Last Supper of tuna pasta bake--in a casserole dish-- she ended up stabbing him. (Homemade custard was also involved.)

At that point, we trended. I've never been part of a Twitter-storm before; I lead a sheltered life. It's quite something.

There are six fifteen-minute new episodes each week, every week, and an 'omnibus' edition on Sundays. The show itself is rather niche listening. It's a cultural meme; practically everyone in England knows about it, but few people below retirement age will admit to following it. I myself became an Archers Addict long ago, thanks to my pusher, aka my husband. He no longer need bother to keep up, as he can just check with me. Lately, he and I find ourselves discussing events in Ambridge before those at work or home. It's become that gripping. I tried explaining to my husband that this particular storyline has exploded beyond the eccentric little gaggle of fans but he didn't believe me-- at first. Then The Archers started appearing on the front pages of real newspapers in the UK, and on television.  Everyone's talking about it, or so I'm told. I imagine that strangers on the bus exchange views; that cashiers in Sainsbury's give their opinion with the change.

Sales of the 'Blossom Hill' tee-shirts will enrich the funds already raised in Helen Archer's name via a JustGiving page set up by tweeter @paultrueman. The real money-- over 100,000 pounds thus far-- will go to help real women who have suffered domestic violence. Conversations have opened up about the reality and the signs of 'DV' as I've now learned to call it. Legal, psychological, and medical experts have weighed in on Helen's fictional chances and on the real-world chances of woman in similar situations.

New listeners are coming out of the woodwork and navigating their way to understanding via Twitter. @HarrietGunning tweeted 'Is there a support group for people who have never listened to #thearchers and just binged through 9 eps? Asking for a friend'.  @velvetyjoe wrote 'I thought radio was television's poor cousin. #thearchers has taught me otherwise. Much more immersive than tv.' And it's true. I am immersed. Though I'm far from the epicentre, thanks to the magical internet, I can follow along, and tweet along. Still,  it's disappointing that I can't share my views on Helen's best bet for a legal defence with my streetcar driver. Heigh-ho (as a good friend is wont to say).

Anyone with internet can listen in:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006qpgr

From the BBC website

But don't say you weren't warned. CBC, this ain't.

Cottage Culture and Calm Canadians: a half-hearted hypothesis

I've developed a new theory of Canadian composure.  I think it might fly.

Canadians are noted worldwide for being a polite and relatively mellow people (with exceptions, of course; RIP, Rob Ford). I've heard a not-very-convincing theory that the northerly cold temperatures slow reaction times, reducing social friction, but if that were true, I should by now be a much mellower person, and my family will attest that I am not. A recent holiday weekend suggested to me an alternative hypothesis: Canadians are calm because of The Cottage.

There is a vast array of non-urban domestic structures that fit under the umbrella term of 'cottage' in Canada. They run the gamut from yurts to two-room cabins to suburban houses, to architectural marvels, to swollen mansions. There's a magazine Cottage Life,  with associated television and shopping sites:  http://cottagelife.com/. In some parts of the country people use the term 'camp'. I noticed this when I interviewed people in Thunder Bay last year (about health, not vacations, but it cropped up).

A couple of weeks ago, here in Toronto, my family received a very welcome invitation to join some new friends at their cottage for the end of March Break. We had planned on staying home during this week-long school holiday and letting the kids do a whole lot of nothing much, but the eldest, on the Monday, asked 'So, where are we going?" It is true that in previous years we have had some fun trips: New York City, the West Coast, a Niagara Falls water-park. Luckily the cottage invitation arrived the very next day.

There was a small chorus of juvenile grousing when we learned that internet access would be minimal (accompanied by an equal amount of adult rejoicing). Middle child stamped his foot over missing Newcastle play their derby rivals, Sunderland. We discovered that the dog was not welcome due to someone's allergy. Husband developed a dental emergency, got an appointment followed by a referral to a specialist, and then saw the same oral surgeon pictured on the front page of the newspaper under the headline 'arrested for fraud'.

All the difficulties ironed themselves out. Lovely tenant agreed to look after the pets. The accused surgeon was still allowed to see patients (but we'll be keeping a close eye on our credit card statement. Not really).  We packed clothes and linens, shopped for the ingredients for our night of dinner prep, picked up a couple of bottles of wine, and headed east to the Grey Highlands. The 'cottage' proved to be one of those on the grand side of the spectrum, a former country retreat nestled amid low rolling hills (very low, despite the hopeful 'Highlands'), three ponds, and some fields. Bucolic and blissful. The fourteen of us present had ample space to be together or to spread out. Children ranged in age from three to eighteen. Collectively, we played soccer, walked in the woods, played hide-and-seek, went running, did yoga, flew kites, played chess, cooked, read, wrote, slept. There was a steam-room.

My theory about why Canadians have a reputation for calmness turns on the fact that so many of them get out of the cities and into the countryside on a regular basis. It's just a thing that they do. (They sometimes call it, in all innocence, 'cottaging'.) I've commented in a previous blog that when people refer to 'the cottage', as in 'We're going to the cottage this weekend,' they may not be referring to a specific cottage. It's like saying 'We're going to the beach." It doesn't have to be your own cottage. It could be one that you rent or that belongs to your great-aunt or that happened to be empty when you drove past last year, so you deployed squatter's rights. (Not really.) It's part of the national or at least provincial psyche to get out of the city, away from home, and into  the great outdoors. To unwind, as we did that weekend. I was going to look up some research demonstrating the physical and mental health benefits accruing to those who spend time relaxing, and especially time outdoors huntin' and fishin' and hikin' and boatin' (boatin'?) but I can't be bothered right now. The data are there, and we all know it. Canadians certainly do.

See you outside.

Slow down: a Mennonite's horse and buggy on the highway near The Cottage

Brussels with my sprouts

I've stayed in Belgium only once, in beautiful beautiful Bruges (whose appeal is enhanced if you ignore the pornographic chocolates in shop windows). I've passed through Brussels, though, several times, by air and by rail. Long ago when I was pregnant with my youngest child, and the elder ones were two and four years old, I transferred planes there on the way home from Florence to Durham, not a well-trodden route, but one that fit with our dates and destinations. Husband had gone back ahead of me for work, so, knowing I would be on my own, I had asked the airlines to provide me with assistance. I imagined being met by one of those golf-cart mobiles but instead they sent me a pleasant and very young man, a teen-ager, an American from Minnesota. On foot. He explained that a relative of his, a parent or grandparent, was Belgian and that he wanted to get to know his roots by working in the city for the summer. Fine by me, and I wished him much success, but he certainly did not know his way around the Brussels airport. The place is huge. We got lost several times and very nearly missed the connecting flight and I already knew there wasn't another until the following afternoon. I began to imagine spending a night in a cheap motel with two small children, French fries with mayonnaise, and morning sickness. Oh, and no luggage, because the airlines had announced in Florence that high temperatures had made the tarmac of the runway sticky, so all the bags had been removed from our airplane in order for it to take off safely. (How very reassuring it was to hear that announcement. Not. And me unable to order a glass of wine.)

The kids and I managed to make our connecting flight because the cavernous Brussels airport was practically empty. With the midwestern teen toting our carry-on bags, and the toddler perched on my hip, we moved along at a clip, recovering speedily from our wrong turns. I wondered whether the sparseness of passengers had to do with our travelling on a weekend. Perhaps, I thought, the place is busier on weekdays, when the European Union is open.

Today, the day of the horrific terror attacks, is a weekday. From the reports so far, it sounds as though, sadly, the airport was indeed much fuller. And now it, and the Maelbeek metro station, all of Brussels, all Belgium, all Europe, all of us anywhere who want peace and happiness, are missing our connection.

And now for a little anthropology: culture-bound syndromes, stress, and work

Medical anthropology has a concept called the 'culture-bound syndrome' to describe a health disorder that is particular to one society or part of a society. Sometimes these ailments are called 'folk illnesses', which sounds a little patronizing (but then again, so does ‘folk art’, and people pay lots of money for that). Anyway, I remember in grad school reading about one such syndrome, called latah, found in southeast Asia, particularly Indonesia and Malaysia. Latah's symptoms include a tendency to exhibit anti-social behaviour such as swearing or stripping off clothing in response to being startled. To add insult to injury, latah's victims suffer from 'hyper-startle', meaning that it doesn't take much to set them off. Similar but not identical syndromes have been reported in a few other, completely disparate populations, including the Ainu of northern Japan and French-Canadians in the US (the 'jumping Frenchmen of Maine', I believe they were called). My interest arose because I was part of a project that was studying Tourette syndrome, and I wondered about similarities, but there is no link.

It's been some time since I took an interest in latah per se, because I went off and studied vitamin A deficiency instead (in Indonesia, as it happens) but the concept of the culture-bound syndrome still intrigues me. Most recently I've been thinking about stress and the ways in which it, and its management, are bound and shaped by national cultures. 

At the three universities for which I worked in England, it seemed to me that people often got 'signed off' (excused) for 'stress'. It happened at all levels: academic staff, admin, students. It occurred outwith academia: my friends or acquaintances not in the university also talked about being signed off work for stress, for a week or a month or longer. There was no real shame in it, though I learned that it didn't do to inquire about the cause or nature of a colleague's or student's stress unless explicitly invited to discuss it. A GP's note sufficed; if the doctor diagnosed stress, that was it, no work and no question about it, by law as well as by custom. 

I've been employed in Canada now for over four years and as far as I know, only one of my colleagues or friends has missed work for 'stress'. (And in that case, the situation was so unusual that it made the national news.) I know of illnesses and injuries and births and bereavements all necessitating time away from the office, all discussed at reasonable length and with sympathy or joy, as appropriate. It's possible of course that stress-related leaves have occurred with me none the wiser, but even that is quite a difference from the British situation. I don't have a good explanation, or really any explanation. People in Canada talk about feeling stressed and about the negative consequences of stress-- of course-- but I've yet to run across its deployment as a reason to miss work.  Maybe there is less institutional regulation in Canada compared to the UK. For instance, parents here are not (yet) fined or censured for taking their kids out of school for the odd holiday, as happens in England; perhaps employees who feel the need for a day off can take one without requiring medical endorsement. 

Decades ago, when I had dropped out of graduate school for a couple of years, I worked as an assistant kindergarten teacher in a private school in El Cerrito, near Berkeley. The Sierra School had a wonderful system. If you needed a day off -- and sometimes, as a teacher of small children, you really do-- there was no need to lie about being ill or to get a doctor's note. You could claim a 'mental health day', with no pay docked or other consequence levied, several times a year (twice, or even thrice). When, some years ago,  I described this set-up to a few of my colleagues in the UK, they were amazed, to the point of thinking I was joking. 

I don't know about current stress management in the UK. Perhaps things have changed and people no longer get signed off for stress. Maybe some other culture-bound syndrome reigns.  It's been, shockingly, five-and-a-half years since we left England. In a few months we'll have lived as long in Toronto as we did in Sussex. Eldest child has just turned eighteen-- 18! He points out that he spent six years in Durham, six in Brighton, and soon it will be six in Toronto. He seems to think this means it's time to move on for the next six.

Now that stresses me out. I may need to take a mental health day.

'Sometimes the chicken': food poisoning hits home

I've done the odd bit of traveling. Nothing seriously off the beaten track, compared to many adventurous people I know, just enough to lay claim to a little cred when it comes to matters such as eating safely in unfamiliar environments. Living in Indonesia ages ago, back in the 90s, I learned the basics: when purchasing street food, bring  along your own crockery (for fried rice or noodles) or check that fresh paper is used for wrapping (martabak-- stuffed pancakes, or satay). Drink tea rather than water in other people's homes. Don't trust food just because the restaurant looks fancy; in fact, you're better off with the wandering outdoor snack merchants because you can see what they're doing. Generally, don't order salad and say no to ice. The same applies to in-flight meals: if you wouldn't eat it on the ground, don't do so at altitude. Peel your own produce.

A favorite food: dried salted fish. Pangandaran, West Java.

Pretty simple, really. In my 18 months there, I never got sick, not from food anyway;  perhaps the odd touch of malaria.

Toronto has two annual restaurant festivals called 'Winterlicious' and 'Summerlicious'. Other than the stupid names, they're great. You can go to some of the city's best dining establishments for a reasonable prix fixe meal. Husband and I decided to participate in January, and selected-- oh the irony-- a restaurant specializing in Indonesian/ Malay cuisine, on a charming block of Baldwin Street, not far from home. We walked there on a Thursday night and were a little disheartened to see that it was a rather plain establishment, mostly empty, with a soft-rock station playing over loudspeakers. Our expectations diminished but we gave it the old college try. Husband ordered a seafood curry. I chose a dish called 'Nasi Lemak'  which translates directly to 'fatty rice', but is actually rice cooked in coconut milk with an array of side dishes.

I warily sampled husband's seafood curry. I am always a little reluctant to order seafood in Toronto, which is further away from the sea than anyplace I've ever lived. I know, I know, freezers, flights, etc. Still. Get me to an ocean and I'll eat fish. It was fine. I liked my own meal well enough but couldn't finish it, so I passed it to hubby, as is my wont, and he managed to down my remainders. We declined dessert and wandered home.

Yes, devastation struck late the next night-- me-- and the following day, less intensely-- husband. The timing was poor: we had our children's piano recital on the Saturday morning, and cousins arriving from Buffalo Saturday afternoon to join us at the AGO (Art Gallery of Ontario) to see the final day of the Turner exhibition. Poor cousins. Poor us. Husband had to appreciate Turner's magnificent use of colour while jogging hastily toward the exit.  Wrung out, I hobbled through the rooms slowly, resting when I found a free bench.

We knew where the fault lay. Since Thursday night, husband and I had eaten our meals either separately or with our children, and on Friday evening, with a guest. None of them  (fortunately) were affected. Nous accusons. Once recovered, I phoned the restaurant and left a message reporting what had happened, and warning them to be cautious serving their Nasi Lemak. The manager phoned me back the next day. He was a little defensive and dubious, asking why we blamed their cooking. I described the timeline and the other incriminating circumstances. To his credit, he capitulated and accepted the charge.

"But I just don't understand," he mused. "The Nasi Lemak is such a clean dish. We get the sauce in a jar, and the pickled vegetables too... that dish, we never have trouble with it. Sometimes the chicken... yes, sometimes the chicken. But not the Nasi Lemak!" He urged us to come there again and said they would do something for us.

That's just what I'm afraid of. But it was sweet of him to offer.

Transatlantic Pilates

I loved my Pilates classes in England, and I’ve been happy with the two studios I’ve attended here in Toronto (though obviously less happy with the first; hence the second). The exercises themselves do me good of course but in addition I love the instructional patter, which is practically poetic. ‘Peel your vertebrae up slowly, like a piece of tape from delicate wrapping paper,’ said my current teacher. I knew exactly what she meant even without watching her demonstrate. There’s no shouting or exhorting in a Pilates class. Instead the words seem to hypnotize students into correct movement. Time floats by. The aching comes later.

Most of this instructional imagery crosses the Atlantic perfectly well. But every so often I’m reminded, in the midst of my trance-state, that I’m in Canada. Recently my teacher has been focusing on the upper body and she showed us some arm and shoulder exercises. ‘As if you’re kayaking,’ she said, expecting everyone to know. And everyone did. Later on she showed us a particular full-body stretch with limbs spread widely. ‘As if you’re scaring off a bear,’ she said brightly. Again, everyone understood. No one commented or questioned or said, 'my, um, yes, what an... interesting image.'

How to kayak and how to fend off bear attacks may very well be on the Canadian citizenship test. I shouldn't be surprised. I wonder whether  the exam also includes tightening the obliques and maintaining a neutral pelvis.

A little night coffee revisited

As Dorothy learned from her trip to Oz, if you can't find happiness in your own backyard, then you never really lost it.

After all my searching, it turns out that the Starbucks around the corner from me on Bloor Street stays open until 11 o' clock pm. So, here I sit, drinking my second flat white and tapping away.

Go Democrats

Iowa caucus tonight. Listening to WBFO, NPR's Buffalo affiliate; it's my station now. They even say 'and southern Ontario' in their station announcement. Darn it all. Guess this means I have to donate during their next fundraiser. Especially because they are announcing pretty good results.

Note to self: register to vote.

A Little Night Coffee

Sometimes I look back and think that the thread running through my entire life as a mother has been the search for after-hours espresso bars. Back in Durham, when we had only two children, husband and I instituted a hopeful plan of 'dates' so that each child had time alone with a parent. We chose Sunday evenings as date night, envisioning a cozy cocoa tete a tete. This proved misguided. We knew of children in the north of England who were fed and abed by six o'clock, which should have clued us in. During the, oh, month or so that this great idea lasted, we struggled to find anyplace to take a toddler out at the shocking hour of 7:00 pm. Pubs were the only game in town and toddlers emphatically not welcome (dogs okay). I remember driving around the first Sunday, having promised my little son a hot chocolate, and in desperation, ending up at McDonald's.  He was happy enough. I was not. We changed the dating plan.

A few years later our family moved south to Brighton (Hove, actually:) With no job for me, and with the older children often with after-school playdates, time alone with each of them came about naturally. What grew in me, perhaps unnaturally, was a huge craving for time by myself.  Somehow, I realized, I had none. Either I had not noticed it for the preceding six years, or it had newly evaporated, left behind up north with childcare and community and my research position and babysitters. The terrible mother within me could not deny a desperate desire to be on my own, to lay down the weaponry of maternity, to leave the house without pushchair or nappies or packets of crushed goldfish in my pocket. I wanted to arm myself with only a book or the latest New Yorker. Even a year-old New Yorker.  

Husband, bemused as only one in possession of an office with a door that locked could be, agreed to get home from work one evening a week by 6:30. That first time, I flew out the door and reached my pilates class exactly at 7:00, communed happily with my core for an hour, and rolled up my mat at 8:00. The night was young; these were the bright lights of Brighton, not the moonlit glow of Durham's quaint cobbled streets. I wandered along Church Road, heading for Caffe Nero, which was just closing. Costa Coffee, the same story. The charming little independent with the mismatched chairs had shut an hour before. All the open, well-lit doorways led to smoky pubs. So instead I drove to the seafront, parked beneath a streetlamp and read a chapter in my car. I felt degenerate, as though I were part of a drug deal. (Maybe wishing. No. Not really.) 

In subsequent weeks and months I tried variations: a hotel bar, a pseudo-American diner that closed at 9:00 and happily poured me the dregs of their dilute tan liquid ('free refills!') while mopping the floor around my chair, a fish-and-chips shop where they let me drink tea for a quarter of an hour, longer than it took to prepare the order I didn't really want. Pathetic, definitely pathetic. Eventually I found an available, affordable (if fundamentalist) nursery place for the youngest, and had two mornings a week on my own. Temporary heaven. 

The kids are now big and bustling with their own plans and yet in many ways, just as needful of parental attention. Most of the time I love it. But it turns out that my Inner Bad Mommy continues to call a few shots. She still wants a night off, which means a night out, because a night off in, isn't. I want to have some time to think and write, bracketed from parenting, housework, and real work. And here we are in Toronto, a city ten times the size of Brighton and Hove ('and Portslade'- in smaller font), which surely teems with late-night caffeine-based joints. 

I compiled a list of 'ten best late-night cafes'. A whole list! My coffee cup runneth over, I thought. The list grew shorter when i saw that 'late night' actually meant, in some cases, 'open until 8:00 pm.' What kind of a big city is this, exactly?  Still, I didn't need all ten. One would do. The first place I tried, a mere five-minute walk from home, was in trendy Kensington Market. It seemed perfect: espresso only til 8:00pm, but tea all hours, a little wine, lots of beer, and spirits. End-of-day croissants for a dollar. There was a large butcher-block table and smaller 2-seater ones, several occupied by lap-tappers like me. The music grew louder and the lighting dimmer in the latter hours, but in a good way. I felt welcome and the place stayed open until midnight. It buzzed without being busy.

Then, two weeks ago, the cafe curse caught up with me. A large notice in hand-lettered orange crayon stood by the till: 'no laptops after 9:00'. It looked crude and threatening, like a ransom demand. I felt both disappointed and offended. 'Is this serious?' I asked. 'It seems kind of... mean.' 

The owner bristled. 'It's not mean,' he told me. 'I just want to make enough money to pay my staff. We need a more bar-like atmosphere.' I wished him luck, but left anyway, not wanting to sit there and wait for my curfew to arrive. 

My ten-best list had included another spot just around the corner from the dictatorial cafe.  I poked my head in, wary now, and found the tiny place quiet,  a smattering of customers, one of them intently reading a paperback book with several colours of highlighters nearby. 'Do you have a rule about no laptops?' I asked the barista-slash-bartender. The menu listed espresso drinks as well as a variety of whiskey-based cocktails.

'No!' she replied, with a shocked expression. 'Of course not.' 

'Well, I've just come from one that does,' I told her, and ordered an Americano. She shook her head in sympathy. I shed my coat and scarf and hat and gloves, and perched on a high stool at a narrow counter. The woman next to me picked up a blue pen and drew a firm line across a page.

The coffee arrived, not quite hot enough. 'Oh,' said the barista, accepting my tip, 'Just to let you know, the live band starts at about 8:30.' 

And so it did. The band must be a popular one, because the tiny space filled up. Standing room only, eau de underarm prevalent. Elbows jostled my mouse and the woman with the highlighters packed up and abandoned me. I saw- and smelled- which way the wind was blowing, ordered a bourbon sour (delicious), and after a close call with someone's shoulder bag, closed the laptop. I drained my glass as the band finished warming up, and headed home in time to help with homework and read a bedtime story.

I've since found a website with yet another list of late-night work-friendly venues in downtown Toronto. One of them is McDonald's.

All-American Spellings

Thanks for the hint, NYT. Still couldn't finish it.

Eh?

Snowbird

I've got a new, rather risque winter coat. It only comes down to my thighs. Ooh la la. 

When we first arrived in Toronto in the late summer of 2010, I went into immediate high gear preparing for winter. In the dripping heat of September, I started panic-buying outerwear and underwear for the whole family, dragging them first to MEC, Canada's premier outdoor store, then, shocked at the prices, to the discount mall down the road. I felt particularly anxious about snow boots. I bought and returned half-a-dozen pairs before finally settling. The kids began to hide from me. "Please try them on just once more," I begged. I outfitted them in sets of matching coats and snowpants, which latter the elder ones wore once and then disdained. Husband cavalierly selected an inexpensive puffy jacket and said, "It'll be fine." (It wasn't.) For myself I assiduously researched and chose the warmest coat I could find, ankle-length, with a faux-fur-rimmed hood, dull white in colour, utterly fashion-free. It resembled a sleeping bag and wearing it, I could be mistaken for the abominable snowman. People did a double-take when they saw me. "My," they stuttered. "Don't you look...comfortable." I didn't care. I lumbered along, armored against Canada.

Five winters later, I'm still fond of that shapeless duvet of a coat, but more as a security token than something I wish to don daily December to March. I've adjusted to Toronto temperatures. A couple of degrees above or below zero, which back in England counted as flipping freezing, is tolerably warm. If the roads are clear of ice, I'll even cycle to work (wearing my Norwegian neck-warmer). It requires a minus sign and double digits appearing on my weather app to scare me these days. Hence the new coat. It can lay no claim to haute couture, but in it I am at least recognizable as a human female. It is short, it allows free movement, it's kind of cute, and it's Danish. I've shed my armor.

The timing feels right. I'm acutely aware these days that no one ever knows what lies around the corner, but with our eldest set to finish high school in June, and the youngest becoming a teenager this weekend, I feel we could be at a half-way mark in our lives here. Another five winters, and chances are that husband and I won't be in thrall to the children's school schedule. Ignoring the nugatory demands of our own employment, we would then be able to contemplate abandoning Toronto during its coldest months. We might become snowbirds, a human sub-species rampant in Canada that migrates south in the winter, like the famed geese. I'm starting to eye up Winnebagos, though I don't tell my husband.

Our street with snow! Just like last year! And the year before!

The Californian in me still gets excited by the first snowfall, however. Last week I ran out to greet this one wearing my new half-way coat. I was fine.

The Valley Girl and the Wrong Trousers

Growing up I had no special fondness for my home and native land, California. The way I saw it, the 'real' United States lay east of the Rockies, where the mayonnaise  labels read 'Hellman's' rather than 'Best Foods', and where winter meant snow.  Not until I left the West did I come to appreciate its beauty and its relentless appeal to my soul.

Last week, during a visit home, I stopped by my father's office on Ventura Boulevard, in Encino, and feasted my eyes on his view northward across the western San Fernando Valley, mountains in the distance-- the Santa Susanna range running into the San Gabriels-- under a wide cloud-brushed sky.  As a child I had looked at the same view many times, counting the backyard swimming pools and disdaining the suburban sprawl. I fancied myself a cosmopolitan type and determined to live in the heart of a city when I grew up, not to skulk around its outer edges.

San Fernando Valley in December

I was always bad at being a Valley Girl. I failed my spoken 'like' quota and I truly loathed shopping. I still do; I'm terrible at it, always making silly mistakes and bad choices. Nonetheless, I found myself at the Topanga Mall in Woodland Hills on Christmas Eve day, prepared for fight and poised for flight. But it all turned out okay. Pre-teen daughter needed to do some gift exchanging before our return to Toronto on the 25th, so while she considered her choices, I browsed the sales rack, where I found a pair of nice black trousers, not jeans, with an interesting cut and a mysterious size label that made no sense. Held against my legs, they looked about right and just what I needed for work. I asked the shop assistant where to try them on; she gave me a funny look, but pointed the way to the changing room. A hasty check confirmed that the trousers zipped up and didn't require hemming and that the price fit my budget. They were $9.99! How could I go wrong? They also had enormous pockets. How, um, handy. I bought them. Daughter meanwhile selected bath bombs, lip balm, and walkie-talkies.

When we got back to my parents' house, my sisters had gathered with their children for an impromptu farewell deli brunch. Before piling pastrami on rye, I showed everyone my new purchase. One sister gave me the same funny look as the sales clerk. "Aren't those men's?" she asked. "No, they can't be. They were in the women's section," I replied confidently, but of course she was right. Stupid me. This explains the strange sizing and the backwards buttoning, as well as the capacious pockets. From the thighs down, the trousers fit me perfectly, like a glove. From the hips up, they are oddly roomy. Comfortable, mind you, and very convenient should I ever have a spare banana I need to store somewhere. 

I really am, like,  a terrible Valley Girl.

Warm with a chance of sane

Canada feels different lately. For one thing, today is December 11th, and it's practically balmy in Toronto: we had sunshine and a high of 14C (aka 57F). This is not Los Angeles warm, I admit; but just as I've converted from centigrade to Fahrenheit mentally, I've converted from southern California to True North sensually. (When I was a child, anything below 80 degrees Fahrenheit meant we had to wear a cardigan to school.)

The warmth extends to the social as well as the meteorological outlook. Yesterday the first 'wave' of Syrian refugees arrived at Toronto's Pearson airport, and the media coverage highlighted the effusive welcome extended to these new Canadians. That's what they were called, on CBC radio. The contrast to the media coverage of Donald Trump's 'keep out the infidel' rhetoric couldn't be more stark.

My Canadian friend, Nicole, says 'It's Trudeau. That's what's different. So quickly, it's like we are living in Canada again.' Her words make me all warm and fuzzy inside and lift my hopes for the quality of life here in the north. I'm worried about the USA though.  No doubt about it: Trudeau trumps Trump in every way possible. The First Amendment and the Constitution's insistence on a system of checks and balances may be all that stand in the way of (another) bigoted despot's attempts to destroy the American way. I wish Trump and his misguided supporters would read the poem by Martin Niemoller, 'And Then They Came for Me':

First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me .

(http://hmd.org.uk/resources/poetry/first-they-came-pastor-martin-niemoller)

Lost and found

Once, in my freshman year at Cal, I lost an earring at an Oktoberfest dance. A few girls from my dorm, Cheney Hall, had piled into someone's car to drive over the hill to St. Mary's College in nearby Moraga. We felt bold and adventurous leaving our own domain. Arriving at the small, pretty campus, we found our way to the festivities, drank illicit, bitter beer, and turned our attention to the heaving room. One boy invited me to dance, then another. Being asked to dance thrilled me more than the dancing itself, which in the crowded darkness involved more dodging than actual dancing. There were flashing colored lights and a hanging mirror ball. Sophisticated it was not. Somewhere after the third or fourth boy I missed the earring, and became upset; it was an opal, one half of the first pair my parents had given me when I got my ears pierced, age thirteen. The friends from Berkeley and my dancing partner kindly helped me look, but for nought. No earring. I resigned myself to its absence, mourned, moved on, kept its lonely twin in my earring tree, to remember. Freshman year held much of excitement, and there were classes and exams and term papers, too. I recovered. 

In late spring, a friend,  Carol, who also lived in Cheney Hall, invited me and a couple of other girls to stay at her house in the Waimea Valley, near the University of Hawaii’s Honolulu campus, in the summer vacation. I couldn't wait. As soon as finals were over, I packed up my possessions, moved them back to my parents’ house in Los Angeles, and flew to Hawaii from LAX. (Eventually, that is. I decided not to board my original flight because the airlines received a bomb threat. The flight departed anyway, and was fine, but I opted to go on the next one, which also got a bomb threat. By that point I felt as desperate to get to Hawaii as I was scared of blowing up, so I boarded. The plane arrived safely. Obviously.) 

Carol's house was lovely, and had as much living space outdoors as in, with guava trees and plumeria and birds of paradise in the garden. The four of us girls crammed into Carol’s bedroom, on mattresses and folding cots and sleeping bags. I didn't really unpack, just shoved my suitcase into Carol’s closet, shaking out and hanging up the one dress I’d stuffed into the sea of shorts and tank tops and bikinis.  I don't recall us sleeping much; we were too busy. We hiked and snorkeled and shopped. One night we attended a comedy show at which Carol had to translate for the rest of us, because we didn't understand the lingua franca, Hawaiian Pidgin. 

Her closet had two sliding, overlapping hollow-wood doors that ran in a track, and on the second or third day, I found I couldn’t close one of them. To my dismay, it was stuck. Shit, I thought. I had broken Carol's closet and dreaded having to tell my hosts, her parents, a lovely Okinawan couple who spoke minimal English. How much might it cost to fix a closet? How many travelers cheques did I have with me?  It was as embarrassing as blocking their toilet. Before confessing, I investigated, discreetly,  having really no idea how the thing worked, just praying. Lo and behold, I found the problem: my opal earring lay there in the middle of the track. Its 14-carat post was slightly bent but the opal and its setting looked completely unscathed. I pinched it out from under the door's leading edge, stared at the thing in joy and amazement, and carefully secured it in my zippered jewelry bag. The closet door now slid smoothly; no confession necessary. I reunited the opal with its mate two weeks later back in LA.  The whole thing seemed miraculous and unbelievable. Eventually I settled on the explanation that somehow, the earring had been jostled during the dance at St. Mary's, had fallen into my clothing and become entangled, had hidden for months in a drawer in my dorm room, and then had ended up packed in the suitcase I brought to Hawaii. The scenario reflected badly on my laundry practices but short of invoking perfidy (someone stealing the earring and covertly returning it?) I could think of no other. I still can't.

I often remember this earring when I've lost something. Lost things and found things, the impermanence of possession, the illusion of loss. One of my children recently unearthed a cache of photographs and fridge magnets that had been packed away since the most recent move (2.5 years ago) and which I thought had gone for good. Now here the things are, back again, competing for space on our crowded refrigerator and on the bulletin-board photo gallery mounted on our kitchen wall. The kids as babies; husband and me on a holiday in Wales before we had any children. Things found, for now. Memories held, for now. Our eldest child, a tiny newborn in a fading snapshot, is currently applying for university places. He is already anticipating what he will need for his own dorm room, in his own freshman year. 

Talk about impermanence. 

I wonder where the opal earrings are now.

Rocky trip

Every year, thousands of anthropologists gather to talk to each other. It's kind of weird. We could all email, or phone, or facebook, or tweet, and in fact, we do quite a lot of that too, before and after and even during the meeting. Yet we still seem to want to get together face-to-face, microphone to mouth, bum to chair. (Good anthropological subject, no doubt.) This year, the conference took place in downtown Denver, mainly at the convention center, a place with the cavernous feel of an airport, albeit in this case an airport under attack by a giant blue bear. 

Blue Bear outside the Colorado Convention Center

Denver is an odd city even discounting King Kong's ursine cousin. Spread on the high plains that abut the Rockies, it has a western feel, though it lies east of the Continental Divide, an invisible geological feature that figures strongly in the Coloradan imagination. 'The Divide' comes up often in names of Denver's restaurants, bars,  menu items, and, cleverly, a fencing business. The downtown pedestrian mall looks shiny and tall and new, but is also home turf to a downtrodden lot of individuals who, in mid-November, already looked pretty darn cold. Upon arriving at our hotel we went for a walk and right around the corner found a posse of six or eight thick white policemen surrounding a small, dark, handcuffed man. "You're fine," one officer said cheerily to husband and me, "Go on through," as we hesitated, wondering whether to cross the street. Sure, we were fine. 

In the olden days, when they were small and inexpensive to transport, husband and I packed up the kids too and dragged them along with us to whichever North American city was hosting the anthropology gathering that year. We would fly in from England, and my parents would join us from LA,  to bond with and babysit for their grandchildren while we attended symposia, dinners, and business meetings. A little chaotic always, but fun. One year, in Washington DC, when the second child was a toddler, he got hold of his father's glasses and yanked, breaking them. Husband does not function well as a visual being without his specs, and the very next day he had to deliver an important paper (well, important to his audience). Disaster! My mother and I took three little boys-- my two plus the infant son of a friend-- to the Washington Zoo, down the street, while my father served as guide dog to my husband as they sought out an optometrist who could repair the damage. Fun times (mostly).  

The kids are less likely to destroy personal items these days but are also too old and too busy with their own concerns to tag along with us; they have school and friends and activities. (Plus we would have to pay the full price for their airfare.) So they stay in Toronto and I spend about as much time sorting out their schedules as I do preparing my presentations. Phone calls, emails, texts whiz back and forth.  Complex negotiation coupled with a sort of auctioneering generates a spreadsheet. "Who will have this child for Thursday night?... Sold to the highest bidder."  Eventually, we establish which child spends which night at each venue. But then who will walk the dog? Back to the drawing board. 

This year we considered leaving eldest son, age 17 1/2, in charge. But it turned out that he had joined his school's Model UN team and would spend three of the four days of our absence in camera at the university, arguing the case of Persia in the Peloponnesian War. Impressive and all that, but not much use to us. 

A workable spreadsheet emerged eventually, a column per child, a row per day. A list of names, numbers, email addresses below: in case of emergency. Kind friends new and old stepped up to the plate. The kids helped each other too. Everything sorted; we could head to the airport confident that our children would be safe, fed, and warm. The pets too. Off we flew, ready to conference. We kissed the children and told them we would see them in four days. Except, of course, that's not really how it works any more, is it? Before we even boarded our flight inToronto, we rang the elder two to ensure they had woken up in time for school. "Don't forget to walk the dog!" we admonished.

Soon after we reached Denver, eldest child emailed to ask where his father keeps his dress shoes, required for the Model UN stint. From our hotel room in Denver that night, via the magic of Google Docs, I helped youngest child edit an assignment she had to hand in the next morning. (The only problem was that she was working on it in real time, with me, and it was midnight in Toronto.)  The next day, after my presentation finished, I found a quiet corner of the convention center, beneath the Blue Bear's beady gaze, and set about sending and receiving a dozen texts to ensure that the younger two had met, walked the dog and that elder had escorted younger to home of the weekend hosts. "She hasn't arrived yet," reported my friend, the incipient hostess. "Where is she?" I texted middle child to find the answer. "Where are you both?" I typed, hoping he couldn't hear my gritted teeth. "At home, drinking tea," he replied. "We'll leave when I'm done." He had instructed his younger sister to walk the dog while he put his feet up, it seemed. Not a lot I could do about it.

And so it continued. I lived in two worlds, anthropologist at work and play, and mother supervising the home front. On the one hand, how nice; I could be away and yet still feel connected. On the other hand, 'connected' wasn't quite the right word. 'Tethered' might be more accurate. Electronically staked out. Unable to escape. Unwilling, perhaps, too, but sometimes that's not the point. Often we don't want what it is we actually need. (Who sang that?) 

Still, it was a good trip. I presented some work on how clinicians manage their chronic pain patients; husband spoke about seduction. I obtained a wonderful new book by Frances Larson, published by W.W. Norton: Severed: the Story of Heads Lost and Heads Found, a historical perspective on decapitation. I met interesting new people, real people, not their email accounts. Husband and I managed a romantic interlude, skiving off for the last half-day of the conference to visit the gorgeous, delightful town of Boulder on a sunny blue day. We wandered the Pearl Street Mall, and the university, and then we managed a short steep hike up to the Flatirons, stopping only when the trail became too icy. 

As soon as I could, I emailed a photo to our children. "We're on our way home!" I told them. "We can't wait to see you." 

But of course, the electrons got there first.

Decline and Fall

Autumn has been both mellowly fruitful and ferociously fraught. One of my brilliant, beautiful, beloved nieces, a college student, became critically ill and hung for a few days on the edge of tragedy, multiple organs failing, in first one then another ICU in Los Angeles (the second one far far better). She is, thanks to the magics of medicine and mother-love, on the mend (not to downplay fatherly devotion, but it does not alliterate). When I last saw my niece, 3 days ago, she was totally sedated and hooked up to numerous devices. Today she ate ice cream and texted my daughter. Miracle girl. The power of youth.

Only days before her precipitous decline, I had been thinking about mortality and the continuity between life and death in a completely different context. I produced these great thoughts while riding my bike through a graveyard. As one does. Toronto is home to the cheerfully-named Mt. Pleasant Cemetery, which is like a huge park that happens to have dead people under it. It has lovely winding paths, greenery, flowers, and now, autumnal colours.

Mt. Pleasant Cemetery, with jogger

I cycled under great arching orange-leaved trees, sharing the way with a mother pushing a baby buggy and a jogger. Life and death united in the nicest possible way. Completely unlike the ICU.

Our own house fares well in the fall, too, mainly thanks to the neighbours' gorgeous Japanese maple. We are grateful.

Our house and the neighbours' maple