iPhone out of jail!

Ha! I liberted my iPhone. Broke it from its chains, unlocked it so I can use it with any cell phone provider, not only the cruel one who tied me up in the 3-year contract. Especially exciting is the fact that I can buy prepaid SIM card and not pay the outrageous data roaming charges my dear provider loads on me if I dare to use internet on my iPhone while abroad. As a bonus, I am typing this post using a Bluetooth wireless keyboard with my phone instead of the touch-keypad built into the system. You gotta love the endless possibilities of the device which is built to do so much more than we're stuck with if we blindly follow the rules.

"Serve It Cold", a podiobook

by Ronnie Blackwell
(downloaded from podiobooks.com)

A crime mystery story which, I just found out, you can enjoy for free on Google books - just click the picture for the link. However, I enjoyed the podcast dramatization by dancingcatstudios.com. The story has lively characters and the dramatization gave them distinctive voices with charming southern accent. The plot was a bit on the weak side, but all together I was really drawn into the story until the very end. Johnny C, a private detective, is hired by a college professor to follow his beautiful wife and collect evidence of her infidelity. That he does on the very next page, because she is not hiding her affair with the client's brother. Johnny C follows the couple to New Orleans, where we were given a whiff of the old French Quarter through a palette of colorful local characters. When Johnny C's client ends up shot dead in his house, things speed up a little, but not too much; things never get too fast in American South. Disappointingly, the conclusion doesn't conclude anything, as unlikely character becomes a prime suspect, but was let go for the lack of evidence, personal inconvenience she held for the local judge and the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous. Unconvincing, but because I managed to fall in love with the characters well before the ending, I'm inclined to forgive.

"Crucifixion and Other Fictions", a podiobook

by Mina Samuels
(Audiobook downloaded from podiobooks.com)

Yet unpublished collection of 13 short stories, read by the author. Skillfully woven tales well worth listening to. I hope they'll be published soon. Three of the stories are the 9-11 stories, but although the terrorists' attack on New York features as a life changing event for the main characters, it is not the focal point of the stories. Rather, they show snippets of ordinary life altered by those extraordinary circumstances.

Remaining ten stories are moments in lives of ordinary Americans, easy to identify with and well crafted. The common theme would be children, but only loosely, or maybe parenthood. In some stories children are yet unborn, in others they are only briefly mentioned adults, or a constantly crying newborn. The collection leaves the impression that the author was dealing with some children-related issues, whether it is pregnancy or some other development, it reflected in these stories.

A Christmas of Long Ago

Close to midnight on Christmas Eve people dusted off their best winter clothing; family walked to church slowly, dressed to the nines; kids behaved, holding hands with their belonging adults; the older men lifted their hats when passing a woman; women nodded back stiffly and gracefully. The crowd gathered in front of the neighborhood church. The breath of their chatter rose in small vapor-clouds into winter air. Watched from the side it looked like a comic book scene with empty speech-bubbles raising from their lips. Slowly, they funneled through the narrow door into the candlelit belly of the church rich with the aroma of incense. On their coats people brought their own scents of spiced cooked wine, oven-baked ham and cookies.

Throughout the service they all stood with their heads bowed and sang the hymns together. At the end they shared love with their neighbors by shaking their hands and women faking the kiss on each other's cheek by kissing the air. Young boys would try to strategically position themselves next to the girls and, though the kiss was traditionally shared by two women, they'd plant one on the girl's cheek, causing some healthy blushing. On occasion, although rarely, a girl would return the kiss, and both would move away with matching redness spread over their faces and ears.

After the service people returned to their homes in groups of a few families together, walking slower and talking louder. It was a festive night, once upon a time in the land and the time of my youth.

More Christmas bitchin'

Every year I complain about the Christmas songs overkill. This year it drove us so far that we stopped listening to our favorite radio station CHFI, because they declared themselves the "Toronto's official Christmas station," and for weeks play nothing but Christmas music.

I have problem with them advertising the station as official Christmas station. As far as I know, OFFICIAL means that someone has to give them the title, and I could swear that Toronto City Council never debated such thing. So, if it's officially not confirmed that they are the official station, than this is false claim, false representation and misleading of the public. Though, I'd forgive them all that if they'd only ease off on terrible re-re-re-renditions of always the same Christmas classics. It's alarming how uncreative the musicians have become, especially this year. But then, I guess there are only a few Christmas songs and there are so many so-called artists these days and each of them needs to record some sort of Christmas song. At the end the innocent listener pays the price.

Okay, after all this bitchin' I admit there's a Christmas song that makes me smile. It goes: "I want a hippopotamus for Christmas and only hippopotamus will do..."

Sadly, one of the mobile phone providers - Telus - is using the song for their Christmas commercials with a squeaky-clean hippo prancing about the pristine white space of the TV screen. It, of course, makes perfect sense, because every Canadian hippopotamus naturally has a need for a mobile phone, so she can call her hippo-mamma in Africa and complain about the snow and Canadian frigid winters.

Busy...

Ever since my online writing classes started I focused all the creative energy to it and there's nothing left for the blog. Besides, days leading to Christmas are always extremely busy at work with everyone doubling whatever they do, so they can take time off for the holidays. That means that I also have to satisfy double the amount of requests for recordings of different kind. It's been a busy week so far, but tomorrow should be a slow day and after tomorrow I won't care--that's when Meg and I start our two weeks vacation.

eReader

Once upon a time before the iPhone - though I'm not sure how we lived without it - I had a Palm PDA to organize my life. On that Palm was installed eReader, an application for reading ebooks. I amassed an impressive little library of ebooks and always had a few on the Palm for those idle moments before a meeting, or while waiting for Meg, or some such. Then, when we switched onto iPhones, those ebooks stayed on the Palm, gathering virtual digital dust, unused and unread. Until last Friday, when I discovered the eReader application for iPhone, which not only lets me read ebooks on it, but can also import the ebooks we bought for the Palm. So, my micro-sized book shelf is with me again, Hemingway's short stories, which I often re-read in search for style guidance or an inspiration, are back in my pocket, together with several other contemporary and classical volumes. What a treat for a biblioholic like me.

"The Dream Life of Sukhanov", a novel

by Olga Grushin

In mid-1980s Moscow Sukhanov is a 50-something-old Soviet aparatchik, who was once a promising painter, but sold his talent for more in-line job of an art critic and editor-in-chief of a Soviet's prominent art magazine. He is so unconscious in his role that he doesn't detect subtle changes in Soviet Union which is slowly opening up to the rest of the world. Subsequently, he loses his job and his family.

Throughout the book Sukhanov has flashes of memories from his childhood onward and he re-lives them almost like in a dream. The third person narration in those moments turns into the first person account of his thoughts, feelings and events from his past. As Sukhanov deteriorates, the book culminates somewhere between the memories, dreams, hallucinations and twisted reality.

The author, Olga Grushin, is a recent immigrant from Russia who lives in the USA. Her command of English language is astonishing. Although on a few occasions her descriptions seem almost too rich for the story she's telling, it is a captivating read.

Vertigo

I turn in my sleep to the right. Suddenly, the world starts spinning violently. My eyes snap open - the room around me whirls in mad circles from left to right. My stomach reacts and I can already feel the acid raising in my throat. I know this feeling. Desperately, I lurch to the left and lay flat on my back. The spinning slows down and finally the room regains its immobility. My breathing is shallow and fast, my stomach still sits in my throat.

How long has it been since the last episode of this? Six years? Seven, maybe? That time I ended up visiting a doctor. The old doctor who checked me up smiled when I described the symptoms. As a med student he wrote the paper on my disease. He told me the name of it, which I forgot as soon as I got better. It is, he explained, a virus which affects the center of balance in my inner ear. It can't be cured, but it isn't dangerous. At least, not dangerous as a disease, though it could put me in harms way if I, say, lose balance while crossing the street. He prescribed a series of exercises which consisted of sitting on the edge of the bed and dropping sideways into laying position first to one side, then to the other. Two weeks later, the vertigo disappeared.

And now it came back to haunt me at 4 AM. I don't dare to turn on my side and my back is soon sore from laying still. It seems sleep is over for the night. Just as before, the spinning starts only when my head is tilted to the right. For the next few weeks I'll have an unpleasant reminder to keep it straight. I get out of the bed, carefully avoiding leaning to the right, and slowly dress for the run.

Snow Storm

5 AM. Snow storm, the first for this winter. Bad. Strong winds, wet heavy snow. Snowflakes freeze on the way down and turn into tiny projectiles whipped by the wind. They pelt my face, sting my eyes. I can barely see where I'm going. The wind gusts hit me in the face so hard that I can't breathe. It's a struggle. Every step is pushing against an invisible hand that pushes back into my chest, pulls at my jacket, pounds my head. The icy road is now covered with snow. Its wetness sucks my feet in, I'm running on a carpet too deep for comfort - just pulling the feet out for the next step is an effort. It's an all-out battle. I progress slowly, winning it step by step. The storm throws all its best tricks against me: the wind gusts blow the snow away, there's only a thin layer over ice in places. The pelting snowflakes keep my eyes half-closed. My foot lands on the barely concealed ice, I slip... but there's a pocket of deep snow right beside and my other foot plunges there. Balance regained, I'm saved and push onward.

Near the hospital someone moves on the sidewalk. A man with hands in the coat pockets, head hung low and shoulders high. From the whirling white mass blowing all around us I can't see the leash coming out of one of the pockets, nor the dog until they're so close I could touch them if I stretch my arm. The man looks at me, surprised. I can see his eyes dim in sympathy. I could feel almost imperceptible shake of head - he'd just seen a mad man running in this weather. I plod on, wondering which one of us is crazier.

Ice King

My eyes refused to open this morning, even though I woke up just before the alarm went off and tiptoed from the bedroom. Meg was breathing deeply, lost in one of her vivid dreams. As usually, I slowly descended the stairs to the basement, trying to keep the left ankle immobile, because it cracks loudly with every step. The dry cracks of the joint seem amplified in the dead quiet of the night. It always worries me that the noise will wake the sleeping queen.

In the basement I squeezed into my running tights, stretched and quietly went out. The cold air of the night pricked the exposed skin of my face with thousands of needles and finally jolted me awake. Right on time, as it turns out. When I stepped on the pavement, my feet slipped. Streets of the neighborhood were covered with a thin layer of ice. The sky was clear with stars and a slice of the moon shining brightly. I owned the road, feeling like a king. My kingly steps were very feminine - short and careful, like running over egg shells. But, for the first icy run of the season, it was uneventful and almost nice.

Writing School

I finally did it! I can't even remember when it was that I started fantasizing about writing, but I proved myself absolutely incapable of sitting down and doing it consistently. Since I can't get the desire out of my system, an action was needed to push me to write. I enrolled into Creative Writing online course and my classes start next Tuesday. Exciting! Watch out Hemingway, here I come!

Snow and Sushi

It snowed today. Luckily not enough to catch on, but enough to give us a quick preview of what's to come. The road was wet, people drove 40% slower than usually, which meant crawling through otherwise inept traffic even slower. To make matter worse, the wet roads froze during the evening commute. Quite a few cars slipped, then everyone slowed even more.

On the way home, Meg had craving for sushi. It's funny, whenever she craves food, it's always sushi. Since our usual sushi place really dropped in quality - we always order the same sushi mix and it comes in smaller and ever-shrinking portions, while price mysteriously stays the same - we are experimenting with new restaurants. Tonight was a lucky night, because we believe we finally found it: Gal's Sushi. A nice atmosphere, pleasant waiting staff, good sushi and reasonable price.

The crown on the evening was Meg's quickly baked load of vanilla crescents cookies, a walnutty buttery kind of sweet cookie coated in icing sugar. My cravings are much more diverse than Meg's, and cookies were the tonight's one.

Dim Sum Sunday

Sun and Jas from across the street joined us for a dim sum breakfast at our new favorite place, the Century Palace restaurant we discovered recently. Lots of good food. Their nine year old son nibbled a few pieces here and there, but was more interested in the Diaries of a Wimpy Kid (book) than the food.

After dim sum, Sun and Jas came by for a new specialty coffee I made - the California coffee: whiskey, strong coffee, ice cream and whipped cream. Sinful, but so yummy.

While sipping coffee they couldn't stop admiring Meg's incomplete painting on the easel in the living room. I was hoping that Meg would get motivated to continue painting from so much praise, but she took it in stride and curled with the book instead.

Ernie's new (old) house

A socially active weekend: we were invited to visit Ernie, a friend photographer who recently bought a house just a short distance from the lake. For Torontonians "the lake" is always lake Ontario. Other, smaller lakes are not worth mentioning.

Ernie's house is at the opposite part of town from us, it took about an hour to get there even on a not-so-busy Saturday afternoon. As we approached Lake Shore Blvd in Etobicoke, the houses turned smaller, darker and in different stages of neglect. Some shady types loitered on the corner in baggy clothes which showed different stages of decomposition. They didn't look to me like a friendly neighborhood gang one would like to hang out with. Ernie's house was a narrow brick bungalow in the middle of the street. It's fairly deep and ends in a long backyard with a tipsy, half-rotten wooden garage which looks like it could collapse onto itself if someone as much as sneezes near it. Ernie is smart enough not to keep anything in it, especially not his new Honda. To reach the backyard there's a driveway Ernie shares with the neighbor. The rest of the yard sports a tree stump, a dying tree right in front of the house and a fairly healthy tree behind the tilted garage.

Inside the house is not as bad in terms of structural neglect. The problem inside is - Ernie. He is a self-proclaimed slob, and lives up to that well-deserved reputation. Nothing in the house is in its place, nothing even has its place. A glass dining table is surrounded by leather chairs which are in disarray: three are crammed at the narrow edge of the table, other three widely spaced around the other end, one to each side. Under the glass surface, right in the center of the table lays a glass bowl full of metallic sand. Bursting with pride, Ernie rolls a fist-sized magnet ball over the glass surface. When it rolls above the sand bowl, the ball stops abruptly, pulling the send to it through the glass. Some of the sand sips on the floor. That explains fine grains crunching under our feet. When the magnet ball drops under the table and is immediately covered with fine blackish sand, Ernie picks it up and rolls it again on the table top over the plate. And that explains how the sand got on the table, where Ernie now serves the food.

After the meal of croissants with goat cheese, fried onions and peppers, which Ernie calls breakfast even though it's 2 PM - his first meal of the day - we have drinks in the front part of the long room which is the dining and living room combined. A sofa and two comfy leather chairs are facing the bay window. The sofa, which stretches across the length of the narrow room almost from wall to wall, effectively separates the sitting area from the carnage of leftover food and drinks we just left on the dining table. To the left is a small kitchen with cabinets dating approximately from pre-WW1 era, which Ernie managed to mess up so it looks like a storage room with kitchen cabinets along the outer wall. By the wall opposite to the cabinets there's food mixed with laundry, dishes among the magazines and other papers, all spread over the many shelves of an IKEA wall shelf suited more for a laundry room than a kitchen, with its metal frame and raw wooden shelves. Back through the living room, behind the dining area is a tiny triangular hall which three sides open to a bathroom and two tiny bedrooms. One of the bedrooms actually serves as such, with Ernie's unmade bed and clutter of socks, underwear and other clothing items which, along with newspapers, books and magazines lay crumpled on the floor. The other room is filled with cardboard boxes in many stages of unpacking and items which were previously in those boxes now are everywhere on the floor. Both bedrooms have windows looking on the backyard with its leaning garage.

After drinks, Ernie takes us for a walk through his dilapidated neighborhood. I admit, the vicinity of the lake is a nice thing, but would never change my neighborhood which looks like from a Victorian-era postcard, for Ernie's. He can keep the nearness of the lake or the downtown for all I care. Of course, I don't tell him all that. Hypocrite that I am, I congratulate him on his house (which costs him more than our house for a third of the size!) and the neighborhood he is so obviously falling in love with. Finally back home, I feel like running through our house in celebration of all the space Ernie will never have.

The 4-Hour Workweek

by Tim Ferriss

Musings and wild ideas caused by the book

I got this audiobook as a free download on Audible.com. I've heard about it before and thought it a scam. But, since it was a freebie, I put it on my iPhone with intention to give it one quick listen during the commute from work. There's nothing better to do while driving anyway.

Now that I gave all the possible excuses for listening to a book of such sort, I can admit that it made me think. I don't know if, with my set of skills, I can really find a business model that could be so automated as to allow me to work no more than 4 hours a week, although the way it is explained, it doesn't seem a complete rubbish, nor completely impossible. It did, however, make me re-evaluate my job, and follow the advice to empower co-workers enough to remove the requirement for my permanent presence in the office. It's a fine balancing act and a pretty slow process, especially because my company insists that everyone shows up at work every day. There are some exceptions, though. I already got a remote access to our network, so I can work after hours if needed (that was my explanation). But it also enables me to work from home, instead of commuting to the office. I suggested to work from home one day a week, but my superior didn't think it was a good idea. I decided to give it a try anyway. One of the things this book suggests is "don't ask for permission, ask for forgiveness". In other words, do your thing and, if they scold you, ask for forgiveness, or prove them wrong, but don't give them a chance to refuse you by asking in advance. Today I took half a day off, but I was on email, proving I can work even if I'm not in the office. If no one noticed my absence, I'll test it with a whole day soon.

Another thing the book preaches is taking "mini retirements". Author suggests traveling to a destination of my choice, or rather moving there temporarily. It's quite an unorthodox concept, but when I think of it, not at all undoable. It requires having guts to do it. If I convince the bosses that I can work remotely, great, if not, I would need to quit my job, rent out our house, sell unnecessary stuff and we could go. In many countries around the world we can rent much cheaper than what we'd pay in Toronto. Additionally, we could find an easy part-time gig to supplement our income from the rent of the house; we could give English lessons, or freelance for some western media, or teach something else. Best of all, we could stay in an exotic location for months. If we get tired of it, we could move to another location or go back to Canada.

The only problem I see with this concept is - if we don't have a business to sustain our globetrotting, going home to Canada may prove too expensive. Finding a job will be next to impossible for people our age. We could be forced to stay in permanent exile. So, before we start discussing the mini-retirement scheme, I'd like to work out the additional source of income, something that can be done remotely.

Winning books on Twitter

I subscribed to Twitter micromessaging service to promote my own podcast, and in the meantime I use it to get updates from news outlets and book publishers and authors. So it happened that I caught CBC's tweet in which they call us to review in 140 characters a book we read for a chance to win books from the CBC Book Club. I reviewed "Next" by Michael Crichton - it was a much shorter review than the one below - and won! The books I'm getting are "Good Food for All" and "The Fourth Part of the World".

"Next", a novel

by Michael Crichton

In true Crichton-esque style, this is one part education in genetic research and practices, and one part warning about the things that have gone or may go wrong. As usually, it all ends with the author's note which summarize his fears and points out how much wrong has already been done by gene patenting practice.

In a court case in the book, a judge rules that the genetic research company which bought cell tissue from a cancer survivor, OWNS the cells. That leads to the absurd situation in which the genetic company loses the sample cells, then pursues the donor to replace what's loss, since the cells are ruled their property. Even more bizarre, when they can't find the original patient, they pursue his daughter and grandson, who are "in possession of stolen property", i.e. they inherited grandfather's cells. Spooky.

Sadly, such unexpected twists are few and far between. Mostly we are bombarded with weird cases of genetic research, patenting and scandalous experiments on wildlife. There are too many storylines, few of which never come to conclusion, and few others never intersect. The main characters, human and animal, are so numerous, they are hard to follow. There are hybrids - and I'm not talking about cars, but rather products of crosses between human and animal DNAs. The ones I can't quite swallow are the talking orangutan and chimp. A shorter, more focused and more action-packed story would, to my opinion, better emphasize the author's concerns.

Smells like Christmas

Although it's almost a month away, it smells like Christmas in our kitchen today. Meg tackled goulash first, made a huge pot that'll feed us for a week. Then she moved onto dessert.

Two years ago during our vacation in Barcelona, we tasted "crema Catalana" on many occasions. It featured in many photographs we took during the trip. We enjoyed it so obviously in those photographs that many of our friends on Facebook, having seen the photos on our profiles, asked what is that thing we're clearly enjoying so much. So, what is crema Catalana? It is a version of creme brulee specific for the Catalan region in Spain. No, it's not quite the same: it's lighter, less sweet and contains different ingredients than creme brulee. Tonight Meg found an original recipe and the result is six small pots filled with deliciously sweet yellow creamy substance. I can't wait to sink my spoon in it.

Eco-tree

Our eco Christmas tree is out, taken from its resting place in a box in the basement. All three segments are attached, its pre-assembled lights on, its fake frost made of transparent plastic beads dropping all over the house. Meg will take care of decorating it some time later.

The reason we put the tree up already? It felt bad that we had no visible Christmas trinkets on the house, while more and more houses in the neighborhood shine in bright lights of all colors. The next-door neighbor, who previously only had the white lights which resembled icicles hanging from his awning, now has wrapped the colored lights around the poles on his porch. It's quite bright and christmasy. Which is very weird, considering the neighbour is a devout Muslim.

Things to look forward to...

We are looking forward to Christmas! Not for the reasons most people do - there'll be no shopping spree, no Christmas party, nor family gathering. On Christmas day Meg and I booked vacation. Two weeks away from our increasingly frustrating work places. Yeah!

The thing I am NOT looking forward to is the Christmas music. It has already started on most radio stations, it plays through the speakers in stores throughout the town. It's going to be a long month of incessant Christmas carols and other songs of the season. No wonder those songs are playing only during this season - by the end of it we are so sick of carols it takes 11 months to recover.

Only in Toronto: deer drugged and tasered in downtown

I should start a regular section under the headline "Only in Toronto". It just seems that every week there's something wacky about the town we live in.

On Tuesday morning a deer took a stroll through the downtown. It was first spotted at Union Station (the main train station), and was finally cordoned off by the police and animal services a little later on a grassy patch just behind the City Hall. The standoff took 5 hours, even ETF was called (that's Emergency Task Force, the super-cops who usually deal with extremely dangerous and armed criminals). Someone counted 15 police cruisers at the scene at some point. The deer, meanwhile, laid at the grass, snacking on the leaves of the nearby bush. Allegedly, the police was waiting until the end of rush hour, in case their action provoked the deer to jump on the street. I think the cops had more troubles keeping the spectators with the cell phone cameras away from the animal. Finally, the time had come for the brave joint police and Toronto Zoo forces to move in. The cops spread the nets and with help from the zoo veterinarian the deer was shot with a tranquilizer dart. It then jumped and ran into a group of policemen, and was promptly tasered. It collapsed to the ground. The cops jumped on the poor Bambi, covered it with nets and took it away. It was checked by the zoo's vets and released into a park on the outskirts.

So many things are bizarre about this - from the wacky deer not bothered by humans or cars, to the laughable overreaction by the police. But, it gives us residents the confidence that, if ever a gang of terrorist deer invades Toronto, they'll be dealt with decisively: they'll be drugged and tasered. We practised that with immigrants!

"The Good Thief", a novel

by Hannah Tinti

A boy without a hand in a Catholic orphanage in the midst of the Protestant east coast gets unexpectedly adopted. But, his adopted father is a thief and a cheat who uses boy's handicap for his schemes. The boy is a willing participant in swindling and his good nature slowly turns even the people they swindled to his side. He is changing everyone and makes them better. Along the way he befriends a murderer and uncovers a secret from his own past.

Although it sounds like a book for young adults, it's not. There is action and violence in the story which is told with so much charm that I couldn't put it down. Its prose is like a good wine - it flows smoothly with sweetly rich taste, warms you up and leaves you content at the end. And, just like with wine, you wish that there's more. Among the top three books I read this year.

A party

We did this before: we had the so-called backyard shuffle in the Summer, where the 4 families from the neighborhood cooked different foods, then we went from house to house, sampling. Today it was slightly different in that we all went straight to Sun and Jas, our backdoor neighbors. Everybody brought food, the hosts provided wine, beer and desserts. Meg made cabbage rolls, which were a huge success, after initial disappointment. The neighbors still remember the noodles she made last time and were expecting the same.

The evening started with apple cider and a casual conversation, with kids playing in the basement. Then we all went to a buffet style table and loaded plates with food. After this hard work, I picked the guitar. Wine and beer was flowing freely, so was unfortunately the conversation too, especially during the guitar play. The Argentinian neighbors clearly enjoyed singing and listening to guitar music, so did the Indian hosts. But the other two families, Asian Canadians, weren't in the mood and kept on chatting, making me feel like an unpaid pub musician.

Finally, the kids were called, the younger of the two Argentinian boys had a birthday few days earlier, so the cake was brought up, candles lit. The boy especially liked having his birthday song sang with the guitar.

After midnight, coffee was brewed and the party broke up at 1:30. Some kids were asleep and had to be carried home, other hopped around us adults on the last reserves of otherwise boundless energy. It was a pleasant evening amongst friends.

Stirring

Yesterday I've heard of a colleague who's leaving the newspaper for a job in Montreal. She is a city reporter. On a whim, I asked to replace her, and today had a conversation with the editor in charge for the replacement. The editor was surprised that I showed interest, but was very supportive. Even if nothing comes out of it, at least they'll know now that I have interest in writing and maybe they'll consider me when there's another opening. If I don't sound overly enthusiastic, that's because I ain't. Not much faith left that anything can get better at work. Still, I will keep trying to change things around.

Only in Toronto - public transport chaos

Today afternoon a contractor was digging a trench to lay a cable on Jackes Ave in midtown Toronto. The trench went right over the subway line. As it happens in cheap thrillers, the contractor dag too deep and dislodged a piece of concrete from the subway tunnel. Then the chaos in style of Stephen King's best horrors ensued: the TTC (Toronto's public transit company) closed the subway line. Since it all happened during the evening commute, thousands of people were stranded on the streets. Busses sent to pick up spill-over passengers were sparse and late. No one bothered to inform the public. Traffic was jammed. Taxi drivers charged insane fares for a short haul to the closest functioning public transport - in some instance $60 for a ride of a few city blocks, that would originally be under $10. It always amazes me how such a wannabe metropolis like Toronto gets crippled and even completely disabled with smallest of troubles. There's no inventive thinking or a contingency plan for pretty much anything. The city gets paralyzed when it rains, when it snows, when someone digs in the neighborhood, and for any other number of reasons. It would be laughable if it wasn't real.

"Old Filth", a novel

by Jane Gardam

Filth stands for "Failed In London, Try Hong kong." It's a story about an old British lawyer and judge who dispersed justice in Hong Kong, India and other former Far East colonies of the Empire, although his work was mentioned briefly, only as an afterthought to outline his outstanding reputation as a lawmaker. He retires with his wife to Dorset, she dies (while planting tulips in the garden) and that sends him to revisit people and places from his childhood and youth. Through these travels, the fragmented story of his early life is being told, flashing back and forth from WW2 time to present. Finally, a dark secret (which somehow doesn't seem neither dark nor horrific) is revealed, but by then the reader is so numb of all the pre and post-war Britishness that it feels anticlimactic. Old Filth reminds me of Love in the Time of Cholera, British version.

NPR book reviewers call Gardam the best British author you've never heard of. Call me demanding, but this book left me indifferent. I am not sure I'll give her a second chance.

New week, old routine

It's back to the old routine: waking up at 5:10 AM, going for a run while the night still rules outside, then shower, work, dinner, book, bed. Repeat 5 times and that's a week in my life. How terribly exciting! I have to change something and do it soon, while there's enough life worth living left in me. Maybe join a circus? Or write a book? Hmmmmm...

Birthday

Today was Meg's birthday. Nice and relaxing. We discovered a new Dim Sum restaurant. Our old favorite was closed for salmonella outbreak and went out of business. We were completely dim-sum-less until now.

Meg looked radiant today. It wasn't a festive occasion, everything was very casual, but there was a glow about her which mostly showed in her eyes. She seemed happy and content. Thanks to Facebook, which she updated often through the day, many friends sent her best wishes. Many, but no one from the family. In the evening that caused a wave of sadness to cloud those shiny eyes and turn them into lakes. But then, a little miracle happened. Just as the lakes were about to overflow, another message came on Facebook, from one of the brothers. And with a sigh, the spark was restored to the eyes and the smile returned to her face.

Deceiving books

While browsing through the books in Costco, I came across "The Lost Symbol" which is currently a huge hit worldwide. But, as I opened it, something was strange. I checked the cover again and realized that the book I held was titled "Decoding the Lost Symbol". The word "Decoding" was deliberately printed much smaller than the rest of the title. The cover is designed very similar to the original Dan Brown's bestseller. I wonder how many people made the mistake and purchased the wrong book. There should be some kind of legal repercussion for such a sleazy deceit! Here are the photos of both books. In protest, Meg and I decided not to buy either.

Friday 13

Nothing scary happened today. Except the dead fish.

It was a beautiful day, clear and sunny, unusually warm for mid-November. Meg took a day off and kept rubbing it in. I had to go to work, she went to roam the town, cut her short hair shorter and buy some pots. So, it was a day like every other. No horror or thriller, not a hint of anything unusual. Meg picked me up after work and we drove home. Then, suddenly we happened upon the dead fish! In Markham, right on the Main Street. We were sitting by the table when it was thrust in front of us. Here are the photos to prove it.

It was a yummy (and pricey) sushi dinner.

The night of burek and beer

Ernie came to visit us tonight. We haven't seen each other for almost five years, nor have we been in touch much for that time. Ernie and I used to work together as photographers in local tabloid newspaper. He is still there, I moved on. It was a strange evening, but in a good way. We reminisced a little, but mostly he told his tales about his many relationships gone wrong. For some reason, Ernie has problem staying in a relationship. Although, if you listen to him, the problem is on the other side. Either way it doesn't last.

He complains about the weight he gained, although he looks the same as years ago. Maybe I missed a period when he was skinny, but I don't think he ever was. Skinny, that is.

Although a lot has happened since the last time, Ernie somehow managed to stay the same. It's like he created a bubble around him where time doesn't move. It was a fun evening of burek and beer.

Remembrance Day

Today Canadians paused at 11 AM for two minutes to reflect on all who died for Canada in many wars fought far away. This year, for the first time, Meg and I had red poppy flowers pinned on our lapels too. On a sunny day like today, the red flowers are bright blood-red on dark lapels. And they are everywhere: on the street, in the office, on the bus and train and tram, in schools and markets and sport games. Red poppy is the flower of Remembrance Day when, every November 11th, Canadians remember their soldiers.

With red poppies comes this great poem and its story.

Stars and rabbits

The morning - or, rather, night, for it was still very dark at 5 AM - was perfectly clear. I stepped outside the house and was greeted by half-moon and plethora of stars. It looked like the sky had put on a Christmas evening gown with hundreds of tiny diamonds woven in it. Sadly, such a clear sky has become a true rarity in our days of increasing pollution. For almost an hour I had it all to myself while I ran.

Down here on Earth the night was saturated with wild bunnies. Colder weather must have driven them out in droves for the last feeding frenzy before hibernation. It's too many of them to still consider them cute. They are turning into a serious pestilence. Hopefully, the weather will soon confine them to rabbit-hole.

When we came home from work night has fallen again. In our driveway, "parked" right in the middle was one of the long-eared furry visitors. It lazily moved aside to let the car pass. This blatant trespassing and lack of fear made us curious. I walked out of the garage and circled on one side of the bunny, while Meg went onto another. It didn't move! Finally, we ran toward it and that must have triggered some instinct for self preservation. The bunny ran the wrong way into the fence with me right on its tail. Cornered, it made a u-turn, ran into the barbecue, then found a gap between me and the fence. Unfortunately, Meg was there blocking the exit. Now in total panic, the rabbit made a mad dash toward the garage, then at the last moment turned back from the bright light and went for all-or-nothing, zooming with unbelievable speed by our legs and down the alley out of sight. Hope we scared it enough to stay away, at least for the winter.

Edina

Sometimes life hits me with the full force of memories to the softest spot. About 15 years ago I was at a small radio station in Tuzla in northern Bosnia. Sitting behind the mic was a young anchor in her early twenties with dark eyes and hair, wearing bright red lipstick. In those times of war and military colors, that was the brightest red I've seen in days. She spoke in a melodious voice and without interruption flashed a warm friendly smile and pointed to an empty chair in the corner. I sat and kept quiet until Edina finished talking and muted the mic when the music came on. Strangely, although I spent a big portion of that evening in the radio station, my memory empties after this scene. Edina became a friend, and often after work joined me and the rest of photographers' gang for drinks. I also remember her commenting us guys with her girlfriend in English. That was the way they usually talked in front of the local guys who didn't understand English. And I remember how they blushed when an American colleague joined us at the bar and we all switched onto English.

When I moved to Canada 13 years ago, I lost all contact with Edina. Then yesterday I found a message on Facebook and a familiar face grinned at me from the web page. Years have been kind to her, she changed very little. But, to prove that time inevitably changes all of us, a miniature version of the same smile flashed beside hers in the picture - her adorable 3-year-old daughter laughed at my fallacy that things haven't changed much in Edina's life.

A Spark in the Tunnel

I don't dare to think that the end of the tunnel is near, but there's definitely some light in it. A spark, just to keep alive the hope for better life. I already blogged about hopeless situation both Meg and I have at work. Well, today that spark of light shone on Meg in the form of a symbolic raise. I hope against reason that this is a sign of better times.

The Death of Venice

A story from Newsweek On Air: On Nov 14 at 3 PM a coffin will be carried through Venice to symbolize the death of the city. In recent years so many Venetians moved out of the city that for the first time since late 19th century the local population has fallen to less then 60,000. The number of "tourists" in the city is 55,000. The quotation marks are intentional - we are not talking about daily visitors who roam the narrow streets and canals, snap pictures and ride in gondolas. For a number of year it has been trend for German, British and other western Europeans to visit Venice and stay. They buy the old houses and shops, while rough economy drives the locals out. In more recent years there's increasing number of Americans in the sinking city too. While I don't particularly care if I buy souvenirs from an Italian or an American, Newsweek's reporter emphasizes what's being lost: she went to buy the famous Venetian mask at a local store, had her face measured and was told to return in a few days. When she came back and tried the mask which fitted perfectly, the woman shop-owner wouldn't let her take the mask until she danced in it. There was classical music though clonker speakers and a male assistant was called from the back room. Only after they spun over creaking floorboards was the mask deemed fitting and the sale completed. That part of Venice dies with departure of its native people. To Meg and me, Venice will always be a perfect memory, a floating palace of our dreams from happy times.

Van Megh

Few weeks ago Meg took a canvas, installed it on a new easel and put a brush to it. Unlike most painters I've heard of, she doesn't expel me from the house when she's painting. I witnessed cliffs and a colorful village perched on the rock emerging from the white nothingness of the canvas. Meg is quite talented, if I may say so. It took her a long time to decide what to paint and finally start, but now she is at it every free moment of the daylight and the little village is becoming more real with every stroke of her brush. I call her Van Megh, though I hope she won't take a knife to her ears. When her first masterpiece is finished, I'll sneak a photo and blog it here.

Dominoes

Tomorrow is going to be 20th anniversary of the fall of Berlin Wall. Our news channels are drumming the news for the whole week, mostly celebrating the fall of communism and the victory for democracy. Only BBC in its series of reports from Berlin and former East Germany gives a picture of unsatisfied people, high unemplyment, high crime rate and general insecurity unheard of in the time of communism. Apparently, a huge percentage of population over 35 thinks life was better before.

Tomorrow, during the celebration, giant dominoes are being assembled at Brandenburg's Gate where the wall stood. They'll be toppled in domino effect to symbolize the fall of the wall and the eastern block. In the time since the wall, capitalism already toppled many people's dream for better life, but in this case the dominoes analogy doesn't work. Capitalism turned lives into houses made of cards and blew them away.

Podcast #5

I spent the afternoon writing the 5th episode of my podcast about running, than a chunk of evening recording, editing and uploading it. Thankfully it's all done now. Exciting part is the feedback I get from subscribers and followers on Twitter. It keeps me going.

"October", a novel

by Richard B. Wright

I'm not having the best of luck lately with books. Could be that I'm too picky, but there must be something else beside nice prose to make me feel that I didn't waste time reading the book. Well, "October" is a slow book about a father who lost his wife to cancer and whose daughter is diagnosed with cancer, too. He then meets a man, crippled by polio and in wheelchair, with whom, as a boy, he spent a summer vacation 60 years earlier. There are flashes back in time to that summer where both boys--one in the wheelchair, another on his feet--discovered sexual attraction of a girl their age. While both storylines had potential to develop into a captivating tale, they somehow waned toward the end. The crippled man asks his former childhood friend to accompany him to Zurich where he's going to be euthanized, for he too is dying from cancer. There they both reminisce about the summer when they knew each other, but the story of that summer ends with them departing on their own ways without having any consequences on present time. So, in the end, I feel cheated: after suffering through all the cancerous developments there was not even the basic satisfaction of finding the loose ends tied.

Easy come, easy go

Scary thing happened during the long run on Wednesday: something started pulling in my back, the kind of ache that awfully resembles the beginning of the back pain. It settled somewhere in the middle back and stayed with me for the rest of the day. It wasn't the kind of constant pain, just a discomfort that would pinch me occasionally when I turn or bend too freely. I was terrified - I had no backache ever since I started running over two years ago. But I do remember the pain, especially during the herniated disk episode. That's why I didn't want to mention it in this blog - I was afraid to voice out the fear, afraid that by describing it I'll make the pain real. Turns out I needn't worry - it was gone the same way it started, during the Thursday's run. In the shower afterwards I noticed that the pull--and discomfort--was gone. Phew!

Brinner

"Do you want breakfast?" - asks Meg.
"Sure," I say.
"You make toast," Meg says and cracks an egg on the edge of a pan.
As we get busy with toast and eggs and ham and cheese, daylight fades in the kitchen window. See, our "breakfast" is happening at dinner time. We just came back from work and felt like having a time-shifted western breakfast. While stuffing our mouths with ham and eggs, I contemplate what to call this unusual meal. If it had been between breakfast and lunch, it would be "brunch" of course. Following the same logic, we should call it a "brinner".

Stolen minutes

I don't know why this is happening, but every morning I wake up 5 minutes before the alarm clock goes on. Then I switch it off so it won't disturb Meg and off I go, shuffling through the house to the basement, where my runner-wear is exiled, too stinky by Meg's standards to be allowed into living quarters. She, of course, proceeds with her adventures in the land of dreams for another hour, while I circle our comatose neighborhood. So, if my math is correct, this premature awakening costs me 25 minutes a week, that'll be around 1,300 min a year, which is 21.6666 hours! Twenty-one hours of sleep a year! Almost a full day worth of wonderful dreams I'll never be able to dream through.

Flambe Marshmallows

Every evening like on a cue Meg and I develop craving for something sweet. It's usually followed by rummaging through the cupboard, fridge and everywhere else a long-forgotten sweets could lay. Last night Meg extracted a bag of marshmallows from somewhere and offered to cook them on fire. We don't have the propane stove, so she took a candle. It was a slow, but definitely sweet process.

"The Widows of Eastwick", a novel

by John Updike

This was the first Updike I read, or rather listened (audiobook), and I can see why he is hailed as a master wordsmith. He really has the way with words, his descriptions are vivid, his metaphors unique and funny. That said, this novel seems like an exercise on the subject of the Witches of Eastwick 40 years later. Beside the wordiness, Updike offers little else - no plot, no suspense and no magic, real or metaphoric. Written at the end of his career and life, it's devoid of juice and energy, just like the characters it follows and the author himself. I wish I met Updike through any other of his books.

Ahhh, Paris

During the month-long hiatus in my blogging, we accomplished an important decorative action: we finally framed the beautiful black and white photograph of Paris, which we bought two years ago. The photo is very long and narrow, and the framing costs us fortune, but it's well worth it.

White crown

For the first time this season I returned from the morning run with a white crown: sweat froze on my hat and turned into frost. The temperature was just below freezing and the night had a distant scent of snow in the air. I hope the falling fluff will wait, I'm not ready for the white nights yet.

"Hong Kong," a novel

by Stephen Coonts

What a lousy action thriller! Such a twisted perspective on Hong Kong and China, its people and communism. In Hong Kong, after the turnover from British rule to China, an American billionaire consul organizes uprising against Chinese governor. In the process, wife of Jake Grafton, an American Navy general, is kidnapped and the tough-guy Grafton takes justice in his own hands, kills the bad guys, saves his wife and helps the billionaire-consul, who is his Vietnam war buddy, to overthrow the commies in Hong Kong and spread the revolution to China. Coonts shows absolute disregard for the real political and social situation in present-day Hong Kong. To make matters worse, he throws in the mix six fighting robots which overwhelm Chinese People's Liberation Army.

A novel like Hong Kong couldn't have been written after 9/11, when American feling of self-importance was badly shaken. As it is, I'm terribly sorry I wasted few hours of my life on this book. I simply had to see how unbelievably ridiculous it can be.

Under the full moon

It was definitely the brightest part of the sky during my insomniac 7 k run at 5am this morning.The full moon seemed so close I felt I could touch it. It followed me around the neighborhood, a silver-faced observer checking my pace and step. It must have approved, for it just hung out there, silent. As a matter of fact, it was still there an hour later when morning chased away the dark cloak of the night and when Meg and I drove to work. It was less distinguishable in the bright blue sky, but it was there, hanging low, almost resting on the electrical cables along the road.

Poppy time

It's that time of the year when Canadians don little red plastic poppy flowers on their coats and wait for the official Remembrance Day to start remembering those who had fallen for the country in all the wars and global conflicts. A few of my colleagues already wear the poppies, although Remembrance Day is 10 days away. I guess it's never too early to start remembering, or to start pretending that you care. Every year I have the same dillema: should I pin a poppy on my collar, or not? I can't honestly say that I care about fallen Canadian soldiers, nor any other soldiers for that matter. But if I don't decorate myself with the funny red flower, does it project the "I don't care" attitude? Or, even worse, does it say "I don't belong"?


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A dark week ahead

A new week begins with the same ol' routine. I woke up at 5:10am and went for 7 k run. On a few early mornings last week I met a woman runner and I passed by her again today. It's always surprising to find someone else out running in that ungodly hour. Makes me feel better not to be the only crazy one in the neighborhood.

I dropped Meg off at her work. Under the shadow of the last week's disappointment she'd been really quiet the whole morning and only thawed a little just before we arrived. Then she spotted a colleague getting into the building and her expression froze. She walked in heavily, carrying the weight of all the broken dreams on her shoulder. I'm not being myself either, with my own little house of horrors at work, but wish I could at least cheer Meg up somehow. Although, when I told her "it's going to be OK", it just doesn't sounds like I mean it. I wish the things would be OK, but I'm afraid I stopped believing it and it creeps into my voice.

It's a new week, but a dark one.

Back on night-saving time

Past weekend they switched us back from daylight saving to the night time. Just as we got used to driving to work in the dark, now it's day again, until night catches up with us in a few weeks. I wish they'd stop doing it. Those time-changes make us all dizzy and screw up quite a few appointments. Every year it's getting more difficult to adjust. I wish I could declare my own personal time-shifting-free zone!

"Three Cups of Tea"

by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin

Maybe I can't read non-fiction any more, but I had to abandon this book not even half the way through. It just didn't entice me in any way. A failed hiker turned philanthropist, Mortenson vowed to build a school in a remote village in Pakistan's mountains. Then book goes into details about his bargaining for building materials, transport and haggling with the chiefs of local villages, all of whom were somehow connected with his failed mountaineering expedition. That's where I lost interest and have no intention to continue.

Back to reading "October" by Richard B. Wright, which I interrupted for "Three Cups of Tea". Wish I haven't done that.


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All Saints Day

It's a beautiful morning, crisp and sunny, but on the chilly side - made for easy 6k recovery run after yesterday's 17k.

After the cheerfulness of Halloween, the day after always seems even more somber than it should. Where I'm coming from it's called All Saints Day, and it's a holiday to remember relatives and friends who passed away. People dress their finest and go to the cemetery to light the candles on the graves of their loved ones. At night the area around cemetery flickers with thousands tiny multi colored candle-flames. As a kid I hated being dragged around the graves by the grownups, where I had to talk really softly, almost in whispers, where I couldn't chase other kids nor play hide and seek although the place seemed made for it. Then, many years later I'd go for a drive in the evening on this day and stop at a spot with a clear view of the cemetery and soak in the shimmering of the candles like thousands of dying stars fallen on the ground.

Canadians don't observe All Saints day. Many years ago Meg and I went looking for a catholic cemetery with candles and found none in this great city of Toronto. Here, the dead were left to die a second death in the memory of the living. Over the graveyards the night had fallen thick and impenetrable. There is nothing else to do but light a couple of candles and put them on the window at home. Usually, a prayer is sent to those the candles burn for, but I never learned how to pray and don't believe I can reach someone beyond the grave. Still, my thoughts go to grandma, wishing that I could believe in sending her my love years after she's gone.

It wasn't all dead talk today. New York City held it's annual marathon, one of the greatest running festivals in the world. I scored an interview with a man who finished the marathon and agreed to talk about it for my podcast. It's so exciting getting feedback from listeners and interviewing some of them. This little hobby of mine is gaining popularity.


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Halloween

Every Halloween we go into hiding. Pathetic, I know, but hordes of little ghosts, goblins, zombies and whatever scary creature is en vogue that year descend on our house expecting sweets and treats. So we run away. One year cinema, the other a bar. Today it was quite an elaborate plan: first IKEA, then a dinner with friends.

In IKEA we paid the price for hiding from the kids: a coffee table. Goes nice with the new sofa in the "reading room".

It's funny how people can't wait to dress in costumes: at the dinner we were served by a bee, her wire yellow wings slightly bent (she must have forgotten herself and leaned against the wall). At the table next to ours a zombie-girl was eating pasta with a knife stuck through her head. Outside, a band of fairies in very short skirts sang and danced, watched by a dark angel in netted stockings with black wings and a halo. Wherever we turned, masked creatures sang and shuffled around.

So, even though we ran away from trick-or-treaters, we couldn't avoid Halloween. And we quite enjoyed it.


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Swine flew

I know, I know, a flurry of blog entries after a month of silence. I guess it's just the novelty of this new app. Or, maybe I have so many things to say.

A healthy teenage hockey player from our town died of swine flu, creatively named H1N1, and then nick-named "hiney" phonetically. We got 3 flyers in the mail teaching us how to wash hands, sneeze and cough into the arm-sleeve and what symptoms to look for to recognize the disease. The vaccine is available, but the lineups are so huge that it takes 6 hours on average to get the shot. That's 6 hours exposure to all kind of panicked and potentially sick people. Not sure this whole epidemic is being handled as it should.

Since neither me nor Meg have 6 hours to waste on waiting in the cold to be pricked, we'll hope that our family doctor will get the vaccine before we catch the disease. And before the swine flew.


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Life's tiny blows

I wish life would stop withe the blows, even if only for a short while, so we can catch a breath. Just as I narrowly escaped being out of work, Meg's workplace played a cruel joke on her. Instead of giving her promotion they promised, for which she worked her bony ass off, they demoted her colleague to be on the same level as Meg. As a sour bonus, Meg's friendly manager is being replaced by a woman who bears natural dislike for Meg's department. It really hurts to watch Meg's eyes filling up with tears like two dark mountain lakes. The whole evening she is swallowing this betrayal and I'm afraid the dam will burst at any moment. I wish I could say everythin's going to be OK. I wish SOME things would start turning OK. We're both exhausted and need a break.


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Sleeping on a guillotine

This month the company I'm working for sought bankruptcy protection. We were gathered like schoolchildren in the cafeteria and promised in the language fitting for pre-schoolers that nothing will change in our lives. The paycheck will keep coming, the benefits will be paid, because we are too valuable to be terminated. I mean the company.

Then yesterday, all news outlets in the town broadcasted the news that the company is about to close today. And, again, reassurances from our executives, sounding like parents who are reluctantly sending their children away: mommy and daddy loves you so much, we'll never stop loving you.

Last night sleep felt like sleeping on a guillotine. This morning the atmosphere at work is nervous. Panic bubbles right beneath the surface. Everybody talks a bit louder than usually, laughs a bit more insincerely and goes to the washroom more often. But, the blade didn't fall. It's past noon and we are still around. The news from the court is that the doom is postponed. We'll all go home tonight and put our pillows under the guillotine, hoping its hanging blade will stay where it is - suspended in the air, indefinitely.

iPhone blogging

I have been busy with my new podcast about running and completely neglected the blog. Not that anybody missed it, or if they did, they suffered in silence. Right now I'm typing this on a new iPhone app for blogging and, if it works as it should, I'll have one excuse less for not blogging on. So, let the bloggathon continue!


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After Toronto Half

I enter through the backyard and pull the door closed behind. It's quiet in the kitchen/dinning area. Maggie is crouched over her book in the living room at the opposite side of the house. I can neither see, nor hear her from where I stand, but I know she's there. My breathing is the only sound in the house.
Quietly, as if not to break the eerie silence, I take off my hat and shoes, peel the iPod off my arm and tiptoe toward the stairs. It all seem so anti-climatic. Last week I was bursting with energy, analysing every run and calculating the pace I should hold at the race. I was pacing around the kitchen, mixing energy drinks and chattering excitedly with Maggie. Now, the race is over and the weather turned colder as if Mother Nature only waited for the race to finish before she turned off the heat and switched on the Fall.
The race was fun - a half-marathon along the lake on a slightly humid day. I felt great despite the sleepless night before and ran my personal best, winning the media challenge along the way. I suppose I'm officially the fastest running member of the media in Toronto. That may come in handy if anybody ever gives me a chase.
The route was flat, which was good, and boring, which wasn't. Luckily, there were some weird runners to break the monotony of the course. Somewhere half the way through the run, I came upon an older man with very short and fast stride. I remember thinking how he can't possibly keep the high pace with such a running style. As I was passing, he sped up and stayed just a step ahead. I tried to pull next to him, but each time he added a bit more speed to his funny gait. He looked like that funny roadrunner bird. After a while both of us were going way too fast, wasting energy, so I slowed down a notch. He must have felt me falling back, because he did too, as on a cue. I was getting annoyed when we came upon the turn where at the 12th kilometer the course makes a u-turn and goes back to the downtown. The old timer took slightly wider turn and I sneaked passed him on the inner side, triumphant. However, he just stopped then, slowed to walk and fell way back. It seemed that he lost the competitiveness, or maybe he just wanted to stay ahead until the turn. Either way I foolishly wasted some precious energy chasing him around.
As usual, the last 4 kms were a struggle, but I managed to keep the pace and even add some sort of acceleration in the last 500 meters. People cheering on were great help in those last moments of the race. I finished 84th overall, out of 8000 runners.

In the shower, I re-live those moments again. I can't help but feel deflated, without a goal to run toward the whole long winter. Still, I enjoy those solitary runs, now without the push. I just let my legs carry me, while an audio book play in my ears. Then, in April, I will realize every runner's dream when I lace up at the famous Boston marathon.

Hospital

Maggie is in a green sleeping gown open at the back. She wears some kind of washed out white robe with tiny faded blue flowers over it. She sits in the chair next to me, but she is restless. Every time a door opens her head jerks. When no one calls her name, she keeps fidgeting for a while. As soon as she finally settles in the comfortable position, the door opens again.
I ask how is she doing - an unnecessary question, for every atom of her body exhibits nervous anticipation. She manages a smile. Fine, she says. Unconvincing.
A minute later she nudges her head against my chest. Her eyes are huge.
I'm scared, she says. I smile, hoping it looks encouraging.
Don't worry it's going to be OK, I say. Such a cliche! My brain is not capable of anything better. What would I give to be able to swap places with her, to be the one in the open surgical hospital gown, wide-eyed with fear. She looks so small and fragile. I feel big and useless, incapable to protect her.
The door opens again, the head jerks again. This time with the reason - it's her name the nurse calls. Maggie shuffles in, I follow. The nurse gives us a rundown of the procedure and takes Maggie into surgery. I go back to the waiting room, where other husbands try to kill time until wives awake from anesthesia. The air is thick with worry.
I try to read a book, but my mind is with Maggie. I stare at the same page for over an hour, until the nurse taps me on the shoulder. She's awake, the nurse says.
Maggie is on a wheeled bed in a room which looks like a giant parking lot for wheeled beds. It is divided by green curtains into many tiny partitions. In each there's place for a bed, a chair and not much else.
I squeeze into Maggie's partition. Her eyes are partly open, she tries a smile. Her lips are dessicated, her face a few shades lighter green than her gown. There's an IV in the back of her hand. Even in this minute space she looks tiny. So small, I wish I can scoop her into my arms and carry her home.
Slowly, her speech becomes less slurred, her responses are quicker. The nurse gives her OK to change. There is a bloody bed-sheet, quickly taken away. Last quick instructions recited by the nurse, obviously repeated so many times it sounds impersonal, almost robotic. We nod. Maggie pays attention, I just wish she'd never need to go through this again. Strange how you need to get hurt to get better.
The nurse rolls Maggie out in a wheelchair while I get the car. The moment we left the hospital parking, Maggie comes alive. She is thirsty, she says. And ravenous, she adds. Let's go somewhere to eat.
Maybe it'll all be good, after all. I do my best to expunge the bloody sheet from memory and manage a smile. A real smile. Yeah, let's go to eat and let's go home!

Marathon choker

Quebec City Marathon

I'm still trying to figure out what happened during my big race. I made a series of mistakes - which one of them caused me to choke up 4 km before the finish line?

The weather was almost ideal for running: cool and cloudy, though there was drizzle and occasional shower along the way too. The first odd thing was the distance marks - the course was marked in the distance remaining to the finish. So, the first sign marking 41 km remaining was actually 1200 m from the start. Used to time my pace on each full kilometer, I had to wreck my brain with all sorts of calculations to figure out if I'm on the pace at all. I'm not a big fan of math, and doing it while running is the last thing I wanted during the marathon. To make it easier, I ran faster to round up the time. That was the first mistake.

The route for the first two thirds went through hilly Levis across the river from the Old Quebec. There were a few exhausting climbs, then we crossed the bridge and headed for the downtown. That last stretch, about 15 km from the end, was a killer. I battled strong headwind and fatigue, there were no distractions which meant all I could think of was how tired I was. In the hindsight I should have slowed down and focused on short goals, but instead I kept pushing on, wanting to be done with it as soon as possible. Finally, around 5 km mark my legs started cramping, my weakened mind gave up and I WALKED (shame, shame on me) for almost a kilometer. A couple of runners passing me shouted encouragement, cheering me on to continue. Amazing how a small mental push can bring you around. I pressed on and finished 76th out of 871 runners in 3h15m20s.

In the cab that took us to the ferry I fought violent cramps in both legs and shook from hypothermia caused by exhaustion. That was easily cured by a couple of aspirins. But the thing aspirins can't cure is the fact that I choked up on route to post a really good finishing time.

To Quebec City

Friday was clear and sunny without a single cloud, neither too hot nor too cold. A day made for travel. And travel we did, my running gear and Maggie's camera packed and ready. It's a mere four days trip to Quebec City where I'll exhaust myself in a marathon race. The only problem - if that can be called a problem at all - were the construction-clogged traffic arteries of Montreal. If you think Toronto traffic is bad, try Montreal, you may change your mind.

Our hotel is in Levis - nothing to do with the jeans - across the river from the Old Town. Pretty much in the middle of nowhere, but near the race's start. To get to the town it took us:
15 min walk to the bus stop
20 min wait for the bus
5 min bus ride
25 min wait for ferry
15 min ferry ride
15 min climbing the stairs and steep streets of old Quebec
(all times approximate)

All that because we didn't want to bother driving and paying for parking. It turns out that much smaller town of Quebec has much steeper bus tickets than our inept Toronto transit: their ride is $3.60, while in Toronto it's "only" $2.75. Amazing how such a short trip can change one's perspective on his daily life. In only a few hours we learned that Toronto's traffic is not the worst and its public transit is not the most expensive. It is true that you can see the whole picture only when you move away from it.

Barcelona

Barcelona on the pages of "2666" by Roberto Bolano is the Barcelona I hoped to find when I was there, but couldn't. Instead, I found a rushed, intolerant and unfriendly town. I wonder if it deserves another chance?

Writing, or lack of it

Maggie wants me to write about my life. To put all the anecdotes I told countless times in a book. I nod, agreeing, and stall until we both forget. Then, in a new cycle, we start again: I'd remember a bit from the past, she'd say "you should write it down" and I'd agree.

I don't know what stops me, which silent force keeps the pen in the air and far from the paper? Maybe it's fear. Maybe I'm afraid to tell the truth. Maybe I'm afraid to remember it. So, I blog, fooling myself that I write. But blog is about the present. Writing is - or would be - about the ghosts of the past. The only kind of ghosts that frighten me.

In the Skin of a Lion

By Michael Ondaatje
(book review)
In his trademark fragmented prose Ondaatje connects unlikely characters into a story with no beginning, no end and no questions answered. A construction daredevil turned baker saves a nun who falls from unfinished Bloor Street viaduct in Toronto, she turns into an actress and meets a dynamiter who's in love with her best friend, who runs away with a millionaire... Like in all his novels, Ondaatje waves beautiful prose, but completely disregards the storyline. Result is a confused mosaic of events which never fit into a complete picture - an equivalent of a beautiful puzzle with several center pieces missing. (2.5 out of 5)

Backyard Shuffle

On Saturday evening we go from house to house - 4 houses in total - sampling our neighbors' food and wine. It's a "backyard shuffle": the four families whose backyards meet in the alley shuffle from dinette to dinette. The children run around - for them it's a change of the playground every time the group moves to the next house.
At midnight, we shuffle carefully across the alley back home, tipsy with wine and content.

North Korea

Kim Jong Il, the leader, is dying from cancer.
Finally the nukes with which the madman threatened the world could be put to use - for the radiation treatment for the leader.

Fall and Break

Maggie's mom suffered a fall half the world away and we felt the tremor. Brittle bones in her leg in Hong Kong shattered the peace and quiet in Toronto. It's a spiral fracture, bound for long recovery. Maggie's on the phone, wishing her into health.

Scugog

Hanging the sheer curtains. Busy with measuring, drilling, screwing the hooks, we have no time to make lunch. Tim Horton's will have to do.
After meal, on impulse, Maggie says "let's go for a ride" and we are off through the deep green of farmlands to the shimmering blue of the Scugog lake. It's an almost perfect day: drinks at a pub at the beach with live jazz, and return on country roads by grazing horses and cows, through corn and wheat fields back home where the curtain waits unhanged.

Cell

By Stephen King
(book review)

A pulse spread by cell phones erases brains of all who answered the phone. They turn extremely aggressive and murderous against each other and the "normies" - normal people who didn't pick up the call. Clay, a comic book artist, with a small group of "normies" travels through cataclysmically changed world in search for his son and wife, and eventually a dead zone without the cell phone signal.
A very bloody story full of gory details, not for the reader with a sensitive stomach. There's King's trademark suspense, although the book seems like an idea which gave way to lot of blood, but failed to fully develop into a story. A cross-breed between "The dawn of the dead" and "Happening", neither a movie I'd watch, nor recommend. (2.5 out of 5)

A Haiku

Maggie asks if the "Kissing" entry is a poem.
It's a haiku, I say.
What's haiku, she asks?
It's a bonsai poem, I tell her.

Hurt

Aging hurts.
I pulled something in my groin by getting out of bed! No running on Wednesday, and a gingerly 8 km today in +28 C. A very hot experience.

Departure

Ken - a colleague and a friend - has left the company. The dead silence at the crowded department meeting when his resignation was announced showed how much we all are going to miss him. In this busy times when everybody pulls only for himself, Ken was a person who still remembered the forgotten art of listening and could stir you in the right direction without imposing his will. The competition has crippled us by taking him.

Kissing

I love kissing your nose.
Small kisses.
It's a small nose.

Eruptions

Frustration builds up in the pit of the stomach. Frustration with work, with people, with little things I can't change. It festers deep inside 'till it get putrid, then explodes like a volcano and my mouth can't stop the eruption. Words fly out like projectiles and I'm unable to hold them, to mute them, to close my mouth and swallow them back. They burn like lava and hurt the closest one, the dearest one, the only one who dares standing by in times like this.
Maggie is that silent force which endures all my eruptions, absorbs them and turns them into regret.
I'm so sorry, Love.