Don't mess with Santa!

Sometimes, Santa just had enough of your constant demands and naughtiness.

Jokes aside, I couldn't resist pointing to this picture used on Boston Globe's The Big Picture blog. The original caption reads: Door Gunner Petty Officer Richard Symonds of the Royal Navy wears a Santa Claus outfit as he delivers mail and presents to troops around Helmand province in Afghanistan on December 25, 2010. (REUTERS/Sgt Rupert Frere RLC/Crown Copyright)

Click on the photograph to visit The Big Picture.

Vanilla Crescents

There's something special about these cookies. It's not only that they are commonly associated with the Christmas time, or that they are loaded full of walnuts, sugar and real butter, and therefore are sinfully fattening and irresistibly delicious. Meg, who never saw or tried them until my mom made them a few years back, became an expert cookie-maker. Her vanilla crescents, the very ones in the picture, carry her reputation far and wide, from our own neighborhood, where the neighbors coming from distant corners of the globe tried and enjoyed Meg's cookies, to our respective workplaces, where colleagues start asking after the cookies early in December. As I type this, fingertips sticky with icing sugar, I am glad to share in true Christmas spirit this picture of perfection. As for the real stuff--I'm afraid there'd be none left before this Christmas day is out. Ho-ho-ho, Merry Christmas and Bon Appetit!

The Shadow of the Wind

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I read the author's other book, "The Angel's Game," before I read "The Shadow Of The Wind," and I'm glad I did, because, although "The Angel's Game" was published seven years later, it covers the events that chronologically happen before "The Shadow Of The Wind." So, when the story opens with a boy Daniel and his father mourning the death of their mother and wife, the character who was never more than a memory in the book, I felt like I knew her, having read the other book in which she features prominently. Reading out of order was a fortunate mistake, because it reacquainted me to Barcelona I left in "The Angel's Game" and some characters I was already familiar with.

Zafon masterfully waves his spider net of intrigue, mystery, and old secrets which are being dug out, one detail at a time, by Daniel, the bookseller's son. There's love, passion and crime, but although there are hints to supernatural, everything was at the end clearly explained. The narrative is engaging from the first sentence and the characters come alive. I felt like I knew them personally.

One thing that makes me like this book less than it's sequel-prequel is the detailed histories of certain buildings where the plot was unfolding. Although it was interesting to read how a certain villa came about, it slowed the plot somewhat, and I found myself wishing the author would hurry back to the present time and continue with the several threads of the story he dangled before my nose like a carrot.

Overall, a wonderful bittersweet story that makes you wish to read it all over again the moment you turn the last page.

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The Bells

by Richard Harvell

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I love the books which transport me through time. With “The Bells” I travelled through 18th century from Swiss Alps to St. Gall, then Vienna, then Venice, in the romantic period when beautiful music could make people stop what they are doing and bring tears to their eyes. Along the way I learned about love, passion, pain and injustice. But, more than anything, I learned about the sound.

The book made me become aware of the sounds that surround me, of so many different shades of “noise” we live in. It made me long to hear all the wonderful sounds the author is describing with such emotions throughout the book. It almost seems as if the sound is another character in this tale of a few wonderfully imperfect characters.

There’s one thing that made me withhold the fifth star - I felt that Amalia, the love of Moses’ life and the main female character, wasn’t brought close enough. She featured as an object of Moses’ passion and adoration, but as a reader I didn’t get to know her nearly as much as I wished.

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Two Flash Mob Videos for Festive Christmas Holidays

Why is there never a flash mob when I'm in a mall, or any other public space? All I deal with are nervous shoppers. A bit of dancing and singing would do us all good in these hectic pre-Christmas shopping days. However, lacking the in-person flash-mob experience, I turn to YouTube. These two videos are my favorite for this Christmas season.

A flash mob Hallelujah choir surprises unsuspecting visitors at a food court in Welland, Ontario, Canada (near Niagara Falls):

This other video is much more high-tech, sponsored by T-Mobile and shot at London’s Heathrow airport with help of fancy microphones, but still - the idea is awesome, the sound is superb (especially considering there were no instruments used in recording) and the look on passengers’ faces is priceless. Enjoy:

New York Marathon, behind the scene

This is part 2 of the NYC marathon recap. You can find Part 1 HERE.

When I submitted my text on NYC marathon for the monthly column I write at the National Post, it was too long. The editor and I decided to split it in two, because she liked the behind the scene description. However, too much time has passed since the marathon, so my “behind the scene” scenes are ditched. Since it’s now certain it won’t be published, I decided to post it here, so my writing effort wouldn’t go to naught:

I’m typing this entry carefully—my hands are sore from the snow shovel. I’m afraid there’s going to be a blister or two nesting in all the redness of my palms. Winter wonderland in Canada is back. Shoveling aside, I’m looking forward to my snowy run after work. It’s difficult to describe the feeling, one must try it for himself: muffled sounds of my own steps through the softened din of the neighborhood, as if the whole town is covered in cotton; early Christmas lights reflecting off the snow in the evening; the solitude and peace of being out in sub-freezing temperature, while everyone else hunkers in warmth of their homes; my breath trailing me in a cloud, like a steam-locomotive plodding through the fresh snow. And, although the signs of life are all around me, I’m the only person out alive, feeling like this whole white, sleepy, fairy-tale town belongs to me.

The problem with running through the winter is—it lasts too long. After the virgin snow turns into grey slush and ice creeps on the sidewalks making each step an adventure, the feeling of owning the world is quickly replaced by the gloom of it all. Knowing that there’s five months of it doesn’t help either. Some runners switch onto indoors mode and mount the treadmills and stationary bikes. I prefer the outdoors, no matter how grey it is. To help me through the winter blues, I set the goals for the Spring—’Around the Bay’ 30 kms race in Hamiton in March, for example—and I run thinking happy thoughts of the past races, like the New York marathon I described in the previous Black Toenail.

I told you about the thrill of it, the rush of wind, the racket of the crowds, the sweet pain of the effort. But now, at Winter’s threshold, even the memories of the long hours leading to the starting gun make me smile and pick up my pace on the slippery sidewalk. Let me take your mind off the winter blues, and lead you behind the curtains of the world’s biggest race...

...It's 4 a.m. on Sunday morning November 7th, when my alarm clock screams its waking tune. I stumble in the dark, tripping over objects which always seem to be where they aren't supposed to be, and swallowing the yelp when the toe stubs the bed-frame. Slowly, blindly, painfully, I dress into my running gear. A goodhearted relative is giving me a ride at this ungodly hour to the Staten Island ferry.

The traffic doesn't exist this early. The city that never sleeps seems to have dozed off for a while. That changes as we approach the pier. Line of yellow cabs and cars crawls by, spitting out stumbling, half-dormant runners at the bottom of the stairway leading to the ferry building. They are promptly shooed away by the traffic cops -- my first glimpse of the organized chaos that is New York marathon.

The waiting area is already packed, half an hour before the departure of the first ferry. People stand, sit, and mostly lay sprawled all over the floor. I make my way tripping and stepping on a bag and a few limbs. My advance is followed by choice curses in a variety of languages. A short wait later the gate opens and the sprawling tangle of bodies comes to life, streaming through the gate and onto the boat. There’s little conversation at this hour, only an occasional excited exclamation, mostly in a foreign language.

Trip to Staten Island takes us by the Statue of Liberty, illuminated in the night by dramatic lights. Some runners get to their feet, the excited murmur grows louder in a stew of global dialects, cameras are drawn, pictures are taken. Soon after, the ferry docks and we pour out onto the buses which take us to the athletes' village.

In the village the wind is relentless, it blows the chill through the bones. A few tents with hot drinks and bagels provide no shelter and little comfort. The more resourceful among us take anything that can be wrapped around the body to preserve some heat: cardboard boxes, plastic wraps, garbage bags. I brave the elements sitting on the grass. Behind me a huge metal column of the Verrazano-Narrows bridge towers over us. Soon, we’ll be running across this enormous, double-decked suspension bridge connecting Staten Island with Brooklyn. Right now, however, my excitement is dampened by the chill of the morning. The dawn is grey, the sun still slow in rising. The time has changed over night from daylight-saving into daylight-wasting time, and while that gave me an extra hour of sleep, it also delayed the badly anticipated heat of the sun.

Near me, a group of Norwegians huddle together under the tarpaulin, gnawing on their bagels. A contingent of Mexicans make a quick shanty-town of cardboard boxes. Italians run around wrapping everything and everyone in Tricolore flag and taking pictures, laughing and bantering loudly. Lineups in front of thousands of port-a-potties grow steadily. I join one too, the lesson learned the hard way on one of the previous marathons - even if you don’t need to answer the call of nature, do it anyway, or the nature will catch up with you during the run.

Finally, the sun climbs over the shadow of the bridge and everything becomes warmer. Loudspeakers crackle with announcements, inviting us to leave our outer layers in the baggage trucks to be transported to the finish. We undress, shivering, and make our way to the starting corrals, still an hour before the start. Each corral is supposed to contain a thousand runners. They are separated by ropes, but the ropes are not an obstacle for some eager runners, who duck under to get into the faster, front corrals. With another bark from the speakers, the ropes are removed altogether, and we walk forward. The purpose of corrals is completely obliterated in the mix of the bodies pushing forward. It leaves me baffled -- why pushing forward at the start of a 42.2 km race? It’s not a sprint, a better start position doesn’t mean a thing on the long run. Besides, we all have timing chips tied to our shoelaces, and the time is measured from the moment our feet cross the timing carpet. Still, I’m pushed and shoved aside, where I bounce into men emptying their bladders at the roadside. So much about the thousands of field toilets being provided!

At last the pushing stops, the elite runners are introduced—they include the World Record holder Ethiopian Haile Gebrselassie—but I can’t see them in the ocean of people which keeps me far from the start line. The Star-Spangled Banner is sung. A few more seconds of shivering—I’m not sure if that’s cold or anticipation shaking my body now—and the starting pistol is fired. Human tide moves forward, slow at first, but picking up the pace quickly as the head of the line is released onto the bridge. My chip crosses the timing carpet about a minute after the gun-start. I start my wrist chronograph when my foot lands on the carpet, and off I go in this giant snake of people, this single living organism in which I’m but a single cell...

...as I dust off the snow and rub my chilled fingers, my eyes find the NY marathon finishers’ medal on the shelf. I smile, warmed by the memories.

Oh Christmas Tree

To exhaust another old cliche, 'tis the season to pull out the Christmas tree from the basement--the evergreen, echo-friendly variety (meaning: plastic)--and assemble it in the living room. It conveniently has the lights pre-installed, all that needs to be done is put together the three segments of the tree and plug it in. Oh, and decorate it with dozens of balls and ornaments.

Meg is the resident designer and decorator. She believes I'm too clumsy to handle fragile glass decorations, and she just may be right. I certainly don't do anything to dispute this. Which is why I ended up watching her humming softly to the tunes from the stereo and circling the tree in search for the perfect spot for this or that colored ball.

What is with Christmas to always bring such a tide of melancholy? There are other, more convenient times in a year, when one could feel just as melancholic and downtrodden, but somehow it's always Christmas that floods us with memories, nostalgia and sadness. Each ball in Meg's hands flashes a scene from a Christmas of long ago: mom and I, a kid of 7, decorating a tree, dad laughing with us from the couch; celebration at grandma's and grandpa's when us kids found an unguarded bottle of chocolate liqueur and collective nausea that followed; first high school all-night Christmas party at my place and a memorable cleanup afterward; the trees from the past blend into the trees of recent years, with Meg at the decorating helm and me in supporting role.

Meg's smile stops the time machine in my head. She holds a small, silver ball for me. I take it from her fingers and hang it to the high branch she can't reach. We finish the task together, then take a step back to admire the creative kitsch we assembled. With her hand in mine I finally understand the scenes which were flashing through my mind--all of them lead us to this point and yet another Christmas we will share with each other.

Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures: Stories

by Vincent Lam

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Well, what a mess. There must have been a storyline somewhere in this book, but it got lost in the jumble of medical terms and half-baked verbal polaroids of failed attempts at CPR.

What did I take from this book? That there are way more failures than successes in emergency rooms. That doctors take deaths as a marginally important daily occurrence, and that they regard having to perform CPR as a time consuming nuisance. All the doctor-characters in the book are interconnected, but they never develop into real persons. Except the brief romance at the beginning between Ming and Fitzgerald, they don't interact with each other, and their eventual connection is only stated in doctor-like brief statements through the book. The author uses their relationships only as props for much overdone ER scenes. The result is a shallow story with too much unnecessary medical jargon, which fails either to develop into a real story, or to glorify the medical practice, presuming either of those was the author's intention. The book reads with as much appeal as the Human Anatomy Atlas.

It's beyond my comprehension how was it awarded the Giller Prize. Must have been slim pickings for the Gillers that year! Doctor Vincent Lam shouldn't leave his day job for writing.

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Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned

by Wells Tower

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

This is a collection of well written short stories. The problem is - I'm not a fan of short stories. It doesn't help that, more often than I'm willing to tolerate, the stories are left without conclusion. For a reader who likes well written prose, there's plenty to like in this collection of dysfunctional American family-drama snippets, but I'm glad I'm done with it, so I can move to a complete novel.

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The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

by Stieg Larsson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is my favorite book of the trilogy. I already confessed The Millennium series is my guilty pleasure and I thoroughly enjoyed this last book. It took off where The Girl Who Played With Fire left off, and built the story from there. There was a slow part just before the ending crescendo, but all in all the intrigue, the ruthless spy game made-in-Sweden (don't expect James Bond, this IS Sweden after all), and the trial of Lisbeth Salander were all gripping and suspenseful. It won't win any literary awards, but it will be remembered as entertaining and well thought crime and spy intrigue.

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Christmas Came (Too Early) to Town

Rant alert!

Aren’t we all creatures of habit? For years now, Meg and I wake up to the tune from our radio-alarm clock. It’s always been set to Toronto’s CHFI radio. Admittedly, the music is repetitive—something to do with the Canadian Copyrights Act, which allows only a very limited number of songs to be played on the airwaves, and it seems that, no matter when you tune in, you’ll hear at least two songs you heard the previous time you tuned in.

The reason we keep our dial on CHFI’s frequency is the couple of morning hosts—Erin Davis and Mike Cooper—who are entertaining and informative, without being intrusive. Quite rare in modern days when everything is taken to extremes and beyond.

Unfortunately, the brains who decide the music policy of the station, take upon themselves to think for us listeners, and potential consumers. And, they decided that they should put us all in the Christmas mood. I’m guessing, for them “Christmas mood” means “Christmas shopping,” which for me are two things at the opposite spectrum of extreme sensations—one is warm and pleasant, another is stress-inducing, blood-pressure rising, hectic endeavor.

So, on Sunday, November 21, CHFI switched into “all Christmas all the time” music mode. That’s MORE THAN A MONTH before Christmas. I already complained about them proclaiming themselves “Toronto's Official Christmas Station” last year, so this year they ditched the “official” part (not because of ME complaining, but someone must have told them the same thing). The rest remains the same. The play nothing but Christmas music!

So, we had to alter our year-round habit (yet again), and we changed all the radio pre-sets onto a different station, until the Christmas madness abates. Because, 41 days of Christmas is a bit more than this consumer can stomach.

For me, Christmas is the time when you sit with the family and reminisce of times past and present, enjoy the dinner and cookies, with eggnog or wine around the (optional) fireplace. The carols are welcome, but only on the Christmas eve. Anything more than this picture is a travesty of consumerism. I wish there’s something that can prod the collective sense of the consuming masses of North America into boycotting Christmas shopping and enjoying the Christmas evening. Isn’t that a fair trade? More than a month filled with stresses and excesses of unnecessary shopping for ONE evening with the family.

The Lotus Eaters

by Tatjana Soli

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


As a former war photographer myself, I was amazed when, reading The Lotus Eaters, I read some of my own thoughts, fears and doubts attributed to the main character, Helen. Although my war happened long after Vietnam, the way the author described situation and mental built of war photographers hasn’t changed. War shooters, then and now, are children who live high on adrenaline and in their own utopia, believing that the truth exposed in war photographs can make the difference, that people will learn from a tragedy they reveal not to repeat the same horrific mistake. But, people never learn.

As it was the case with Helen, once a photographer had some modicum of success with a certain photograph, the pull to out-do his own picture becomes a drive that pushes him (or her) farther, into riskier and wilder situations. At the same time, something tears in the social fabric of his soul, and he (or she) becomes incapable of returning to “normal” life. And, although seemingly Helen always had a choice to return to the U.S., I completely understand her failure to blend in when she came back, and her eagerness to return to Vietnam at the first opportunity. Once you learn that the only thing that matters in life is the life itself, you can’t sympathize with trivial complaints about job, baby-sitter, traffic and weather. Everything that institutes life for “normal” people becomes trivial. Consequently, it’s impossible to fit into society which only pays attention to “trivial” things. If there was a sequel to this story, I’m certain Helen would be in another war, doing what feels natural – taking pictures of another tragedy.

It is a well-written love story, believable as it is tragic. Tatjana Soli takes the reader through the jungles of Vietnam and the chaos of Saigon, into the depths of her characters’ hearts. It is a wonderful trip and I enjoyed every word of it.
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New York, New York

We had a fabulous week in New York. First, I ran the NY marathon, and although you may think that's a hard work, I actually enjoyed every inch of it! It was a running experience like no other and I am really happy to have had a chance to participate.

After the race, it was time for lazy pleasures. We strolled around the Ground Zero and Wall Street, went to see Phantom of the Opera on Broadway, checked the Brooklyn Bridge and Metropolitan Museum of Arts. We also took a lot of pictures to share, and here is the slide show.

Absolutely Stunning Photos

This is just one from the series of absolutely stunning photos which are part of the National Geographic's annual photo contest, published on Boston.com's Big Picture. For all of them click the photo, or HERE.

The party that is the New York marathon

In the story of my running life, year 2010 is going down as the golden year, the year of great personal accomplishments, the year when I experienced two of the arguably most prestigious marathon races in the world — Boston and New York.

The difference between New York and Boston marathons is apparent from the start. In Boston, everybody was serious about running. New York, which I ran this November 7, is more of a running party. Most of the people registered thanks to the lucky draw; only a choice few, myself included, qualified for the guaranteed entry. To run in New York, you either have to be very fast or very lucky. I could tell from the beginning that there were far more lucky ones than fast ones. Here's how it went for me.

Read the whole story at nationalpost.com

This is part 1 of the NYC marathon recap. For Part 2 click HERE.

Map of my run in NYC marathon 2010 - for detailed stats, click on "view details on RunKeeper" link

Pumpkin Masterpiece

We have an exquisite pumpkin for this Halloween. Meg simply can't do simple things, everything she touches is always elaborate. Except me, of course. But hey, every Halloween needs a Monster. Booo!!!

Farewell, cable TV

No, I’m not predicting the doom of the cable in general, this is personal.

Meg and I recently talked about our cable TV, and we couldn’t remember when was the last time we watched it. It certainly wasn’t this month, nor the previous one for that matter. Which meant that we are paying monthly fee for nothing. May as well throw money through the window. With so many shows being available online, there is no reason for paying for lousy choice riddled with commercials. So, I made the phone call. I went through automated options, then waited 25 minutes for a live representative to come on line. But, I had the ulterior motive: this was the last time I deal with Rogers cable. Finally, we were cable-free. Well, almost. Only when I asked to cancel the service, was I informed that Rogers requires 30-days notice. It could have been squeezed somewhere in the fine print, but I’ve never heard of it. No matter, no matter. I will pay for another month of not-watching cable, to be rid of it forever. It’s a sweet feeling of freedom.

As for Rogers cable, and the likes, all I can think is: those who fail to modernize, will fail. The days when they could bundle whatever they want and force you to pay for it are over, replaced by on-demand, personalized choices. I’m turning to iTunes movie rental, and considering Netflix, though I don’t like monthly subscription, now that I finally freed us from it.

Haircut on a foggy day

It may seem the two have nothing in common--Meg's haircut and a foggy day--but they both happened on the same day, so they belong to the same blog post.

I'm not quite sure if this is fog, or a cloud dropped too low. Whatever it is, it made the day gloomy and grey.

Angelology

by Danielle Trussoni

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Right, let’s blame the fallen angels and their children – the nephilim – for all human evil: greed, corruption, wars and everything in between. I am a huge fan of fiction, and I love different and sometimes fantastic ideas, but angels? And humans fighting angels? C’mon!

There was some good work in character development, some elements of searching for clues, but for me it was all destroyed with utterly incomprehensible idea of angels among us. Sorry for my incredulity – I’m simply unable to believe.

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Toronto Goodlife Half-marathon

That's me on the right, sprinting through
the finish line.

 I ran the Toronto Goodlife half-marathon today. When I ran it in 2008, it was my first real race, and it remained in such a nice memory that I simply had to run it again. It comes only 3 weeks before the New York City marathon, and I’m happy to boast that I’m in full training and pretty much on target, ready for the world biggest marathon.

Although much smaller than the Scotiabank Waterfront Toronto marathon in September, this one had much nicer medals – this year they are even curved, resembling the Vancouver Olympics medals, as you can see in the pictures.

I’m very happy with my race – finished with the chip time of 1hr 28min 7sec. You can see the map and my pace splits. Altogether, out of 5,000+ half-marathoners, I placed 101st; I’m 90th in men’s competition and 13th in my age group (45-49). Although I ran faster last year (15 sec faster), this time I felt full of energy and wasn’t exhausted after the race. After disastrous spring when I struggled with the hamstring injury, this finally looks like the good old me again.

As for the marathon – I wish Torontonians were more cheerful. There was only a handful of people cheering on, the whole scene was slightly pathetic. I’m not sure who is to blame – the town, which doesn’t promote the marathon, but rather works against it, because the drivers complain about the road closures. Or the organizers, who did a poor promotion job and, instead of finding content and reason for people to come out—like live music and other performances along the route—they looked as if trying to stay under the radar and not agitate the complainers. I believe, if most of the town embraces the race, as it is during the big marathons in Boston, Chicago, NYC, etc., no one would dare to complain about the road closure. As far as I know, nobody complains about the closures for the Gay Pride Parade in June. But, I’m afraid I’m wishing for impossible—Torontonians never fail to justify what the rest of the country think about them, and it’s not at all positive. Today, I was leaning that way too.

Team in Training

Meg and I went for the informational meeting yesterday with Team in Training, an organization which trains ordinary people to do extraordinary things (sorry for the pun): run marathons and raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. It was a good meeting. As a charity organization, TiT has guaranteed spots in some big world marathons, which are really hard to get into. The problem is – they pick the events and set the fundraising goal for a member to be eligible to run in those events. For example, they have a marathon in Rome, Italy, (a mouthwatering race) planned for March 2011, and a local ‘Round the Bay race in Hamilton, Ontario.

In order to qualify for Rome, I have to fundraise $6,000. Or, $1,700 for Hamilton.

I really suck in fundraising. I suck in asking people for money, even when it’s for myself. I’m just bad, I’d rather pay it myself, than have to ask for money from someone else. That’s why I’m not in sales.

Therefore Team in Training is not for me, for two reasons: I’m too lousy a fundraiser, and too good a runner. Let me explain, before you judge this brazen statement. I doubt that I can raise $6,000 for Rome. It just goes against my character. And, I can register for Around the Bay race for $75, without having to beg people to donate. As for the second statement – TiT focuses on the beginners. They function more like a support group, such as weight-watchers, than like an athletic training group. I have been a beginner, three years ago.

True, they have some really fast runners, but the thing is – you train alone, and go for a group run on the weekend. The group run is in midtown Toronto. Alternatively, you could try to find a runner-mentor closer to your neighborhood.

To sum up – I won’t get the benefit of a good training with a group, save for once a week on a long run, which I prefer to do alone anyway, because it’s so difficult to find a running partner with the same speed. I won’t get to choose the races the organization can get me into. And, I’d have to break my own character and go out there to find money. A lot of money.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I think TiT is a great way to go about it if you’re new to running and need a support group to keep you going. For me – I don’t think so. And Meg – well, I think I can train her just as efficiently, or better. She could have a benefit of her own, personal trainer, the one she can curse at when it gets hard.

Dog Boy

Dog Boy by Eva Hornung

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Don’t expect the Disneyfied version of the urban “Jungle Book.” This is a shocking and horrifyingly believable story of an abandoned boy, rescued from the Russian winter and brought up by a pack of feral dogs. He survives with his new “family” through the many challenges imposed on them by the weather, society, gangs of homeless, rival packs of dogs, and authorities – police and medical crews. There are a few positive characters sympathetic to the dog boy, but mostly there are dangers, which he survives and takes in stride, with a dog-like resilience.

Also, heed my advice—don’t let your guard down. Every time I relaxed carried by the story, something terrible happened, something at the same time inconceivable and frighteningly logical from the perspective of pure survival. I can’t remember if ever a novel shook me to the core so many times during the course of the story, until the very end. Fortunately, there is a hint of hope throughout, and all is not doom and gloom. A fascinating story!

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Photos: The Snow Queen

Sometimes a picture happens by itself, we are only its instruments. As I was playing with a new camera, Meg walked through the door and this picture captured her in the soft snowy tones of the room. Unintentional art.

Photos: Sunday in Unionville

It's Thanksgiving weekend, but for some reason there was Oktoberfest in Unionville, sort of. There was no beer and sausages with sauerkraut, but there were bands playing polkas and other Oktoberfest evergreens.

The day was made for a stroll up and down Main Street Unionville. Dodging cars and tourists included as an adventure game.

Klaus was there too, with his "street-organ" and his monkey puppet.

What are the friends for, if not to give you shade when your hands are occupied?

Destiny

I found this nice short story about destiny on Paulo Coelho's blog. It reminds me of a bad Croatian joke that sometimes rings so true:

A sorcerer approaches a peasant working on his farm and asks him for a glass of water. The peasant offers him a glass of wine instead. Pleasantly surprised, the sorcerer offers to fulfill to the peasant one wish.

"You can wish anything you want," the sorcerer said, "but there's one condition. Whatever you wish for, your neighbor will get twice as much."

The peasant thought for a long while, and finally said: " Take out one of my eyes!"

Photos: Sunset

It's amazing how Mother Nature sometimes extinguishes a day in such an explosion of colors, only to leave us in darkness. Tonight was one such moment, and I was lucky enough to have my camera to record it. A sunset in Markham.

From a case of bad back to Boston marathon

My column on the National Post's website talks about how it all started. As you will see, there was pain long before there was running. Still, I can say it was worth it. Click on the picture to read the article.

The Girl Who Played with Fire

The Girl Who Played with Fire by Stieg Larsson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


I'm afraid this was my guilty pleasure. I don't usually read crime novels, and maybe I'm easily satisfied, but judging by how many people like Stieg Larsson's novels, I'm in a good and numerous company.

The story starts slowly and almost the whole first half of the book is lost on retelling bits from the first book, and Salander furnishing her new apartment, for which we are given a detailed list of IKEA furniture items, together with the unpronounceable names of the articles and price. It made me wonder if the author had a stake in IKEA, or just couldn't get over his student-days infatuation with cheap and non-durable furniture.

However, once people finally get killed, the story picks up. Like an old steam-engine locomotive, it starts to roll snail-like slow at first, but faster with every turned page. Of course, since there's the third book, it took away a lot of suspense over the main character getting killed. Still, although I knew she'll live to kick the hornets nest, I found Salander's solitary search for justice and vengeance holding my attention until the very last page.

If you manage to survive the numbingly slow first half, you may find yourself thoroughly enjoying the climax of a much better second half.

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Facing Back

Distillery has its fun spots. Like these face-chairs.

Distillery's Monstrosity

If you live in Toronto, or if you visited it recently, chances are you've been in Distillery District. Its cobble stone alleys and red brick buildings are a huge draw for the tourists and locals alike. Especially, since the whole place had been turned into a maze of art galleries, furniture galleries, boutiques and restaurants with the only point in common being insanely high prices. Still, no one can resist the rugged charm of the place. Meg and I visit often in the summer, when a stage is built in the main square, in front of Balsac cafe. We'd sit outside, sip our overpriced drinks and enjoy the show.

This summer, instead of the stage, a huge metal monstrosity took the whole square. It's supposed to be art, some kind of modern sculpture, consisting of a cage-like structure, upon which a huge, red metal chimney-like cone was built. Another metal structure resembling a broken microphone, or possibly a lollipop, hangs attached from the chimney to the floor. See it for yourself, the picture says it all.

I'm really not an art-hater, but I do wonder which genius approved to have that piece of metal junk occupy the area best suited for entertainment. Or, did someone decide that Distillery's visitors will more enjoy staring at the "sculpture" and trying to figure out what the hell that is, than they'd enjoy live music and other performances on the stage? I can only hope we'll be able to reclaim the square soon.

Mask

Meg picked up a mask in Borneo. Not that she needs one…

No, I’m kidding—it’s the aboriginal mask, which looks quite fierce, and even more decorative on our wall. It’s so big that Meg wasn’t allowed to carry it on board the plane, so she left it with her dad and brother to ship it.

Last night, it arrived. A woman working at the post office was really curious to find out what’s in the package.

“It’s a mask,” Meg told her. But the woman looked first at Meg, then at the package, with disbelief. I’m guessing, when someone says “mask” the first image that pops in mind is of the black thingy with holes for eyes. Or, even a Venetian mask, which is the size of average human face. But a meter-long flat package?

It didn’t help that, for some reason, Meg and I giggled and laughed when we were there. The woman must have thought we were pulling her leg. But, a mask it was, and it fits nicely in our living room.

Born To Run

Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen by Christopher McDougall

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

(I’m not going to describe the content, this is only what I took from the book)

What can I say – for a serious runner like myself (if “serious” means running six days a week), this book is a fantastic motivator. The cast of characters is colorful and the best part is – they’re real (although it’s sometimes hard to believe, but they are all Googlable). McDougall takes us through his search for the Mexico’s Tarahumara’s secret of long and healthy long-distance running. Even his detours into the invention of the first Nike running shoe (which he all but blames for the subsequent running-related injuries), barefoot running and his theories of human evolution into a running man, are entertaining to read.

I can’t say I agree with everything presented in the book, but I did squirm with unease while reading about the grueling endurance races. It was very difficult to pick exactly who to cheer for from many likable characters who, at the end, had to race against each other.

There are many moments in the book that’ll make you wanting to lace up the running shoes and give it a try. The author takes us skillfully on a search through the most inhospitable parts of Mexico’s Sierra Madre for a tribe of the Indian runners who, through the centuries, could thank their survival to the fact that they can outrun any pursuer, and their villages are almost impossible to find. Add to that the rugged canyons they live in, and Mexico’s drug cartels keeping the unwanted visitors away, and there’s the material for a real thriller. Yet, this is a book about running, and discovering the true technique and joy of running. The only thriller exist during the several amazing races described in details.

To sum it up – if you’re not into running, you’ll like Born To Run as a sports book. However, if you are a runner, you’ll treasure it like a running bible.

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She's back!

...and so is her bag.

Meg arrived on Wednesday, with 50% of her luggage. One bag was there, another missed the plane and was still in Chicago, where she transferred from Hong Kong flight to the one for Toronto. The bag is tracked down, shipped and finally delivered in the middle of the night last night. And now, we're all here: Meg, her two bags, and I.

She's sun-tanned, happy, but she sleeps a lot: in the car after work—luckily, I was driving—on the sofa while chatting with me, and anywhere else where she is left alone for more than a few minutes. Ah, jet lag.

Waiting for Columbus

Waiting for Columbus by Thomas Trofimuk

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I feel cheated by this novel. The question is—does the wonderfully touchy and tragic ending justify the long toil the story took us through, to reach the end? I was, actually, so very close never to reach it, because the first 350 pages made me so agitated, I wanted to leave the book unfinished on a few occasions. Even now, when I turned the last page, I’m still not sure if it was worth it.

At first I liked the idea of a mental patient who thinks he's Christopher Columbus, and tells the stories, mixing history and present time, to his nurse. However, as the book progresses, it doesn't go anywhere, the plot stalls, and Columbus' stories drag on, without sense. There are way too many of those confused story-episodes, unsorted and out of chronological, or any other logical order. On top of it, the nurse develops emotional attachment to Columbus, but that was explained in a very superficial and unbelievable way. There was no courting, or subtle changing of feelings from the care for a patient into something deeper. No, one day the good nurse realized that she’s in love. Snap. Just like that. For a reader who likes his books well done, this one was absolutely rare.

It also seems that all the female characters in the book get naked at some point, mostly without any particular reason other than, perhaps, to spice up a terribly bland story. There’s lust and sex. There’s author’s documented intention to describe a great romantic with absolute adoration of his women’s body, and, yes, the soul, too. Which begs the question whether the author ever experienced the kind of romance he was trying to attribute to this ‘Columbus,’ because if he did, he isn’t capable to translate it in writing. Rather, the romantic escapades in the book are half-baked, clumsy and neither detailed enough to be taken seriously, nor funny enough to be taken as comedy.

Two stars, only because of the ending.

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More book prizes

Ever since I signed for a Twitter account about a year ago, I won with CBC books “tweet a book review” contest twice, three books in total. Well, this week I won again, this time five books! Here they are. I love twitter!

Daymare

Talk about living through your worst nightmare—or one of the worst:

I was out for a 16 km run yesterday, it was my hill training, so I went to the farmland where I found my hills to run up and down. After 6 km of hills, I continued on my regular route. That’s when I happened to pat my shorts pockets where the house-key should have been. They were empty.

I can’t even begin to describe the sinking feeling in my stomach. Meg, who has another key, is half a planet away, in Hong Kong. The only other person who has the key to our house is Meg’s brother, who lives in New York. And there I was, in my shorts and t-shirt, sweaty and stinky, with no access to the house.

The pictures went through my mind of me knocking on the neighbor’s door and borrowing the drill to drill through the lock. While I thought those practical, dreadful thoughts, I retreated my steps, and after 2 km I saw my key laying in the middle of an intersection. I remembered running across that intersection in full sprint, catching the light. My sprinting must have bounced the key from the pocket.

Okay, I admit – the pockets have no zipper, but they are really deep. I had these shorts for more than 2 years, always kept the key in the pocket and never had anything fall out. But, lesson learned. From now on the key always goes into the pocket that can be closed. Phew.

Catching up...

A few things, none of them life-changing, happened in the last few weeks. First off, I discovered a new Tim Horton’s donut. It’s called the blueberry bloom and it’s very…umm…blueberrish. And, yes, that’s the least important on the list of events of the weeks past.

I had to take vacation in August, the last week of it, because I had to spend remaining vacation days before the end of the fiscal year in my company, which was on August 31. As a result, I stayed home while Meg was working (her company’s fiscal year follows the calendar year, so we are out-of-sync in the number of the vacation days we’re getting). I read, tried to make myself useful, with little success.

Last Friday Meg left me.
Fortunately, only temporary.
She’s in Hong Kong, visiting her parents and the rest of the ever-growing family. This is the first time in over 10 years we separated for such a long time, and it feels, well, empty without her. I’ll try to make her blog when she comes back, or, if that doesn’t work, I will have to narrate her story. Hopefully, there’ll be some pictures too. What is a blog without pictures, right?

Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger

Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I love Niffenegger’s writing. Her characters do come alive in her stories. But this time her imagination went where I wasn’t able to follow. Maybe the expectations were too high after beloved previous book, The Time Traveler’s Wife, or maybe she just tried for the leap of imagination that was too strange for most to follow.

I can tell by other reviews that I’m not the only one who was left deeply disappointed by Her Fearful Symmetry. I can accept the ghosts playing marginal role in a story, but making a ghost the main character, or one of the main characters, was too much. As much as she made me accept the time-travel in her first book, the author repulsed me from this one with all the ghastly twists. For her writing, and because I really liked compulsive-obsessive Martin and his wife, I gave her two stars. For the idea, and for the ghosts, I’d give her zero.

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Under Heaven by Guy Gavriel Kay

Under Heaven by Guy Gavriel Kay

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Under Heaven is historical fantasy. But not too fantastical; there’s just a touch of it to make the story interesting and, well, believable. There’s drama, mystery, romance, war, peace, intrigue and imperial inner games, all told through the unusual life of a guy who was meant to be, by all counts, very usual: a second son of an army general.

There’s a fantastic gift of precious horses, rare and extremely coveted throughout the empire, which is bestowed upon Tai, the main character. The gift for which his life is in danger, and at the same time more valuable than most other in the empire.

As Tai travels to the capital, escaping assassins sent to kill him and gathering friends along the way, we learn about the politics, the games and the times of the empire from long ago. The characters are captivating, the storytelling superb, the story so packed with twists and turns that you can’t put it down. Extremely enjoyable, fast paced read.

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The peach thief

The neighbors across the road are on vacation. We are keeping an eye on their house, which pretty much means that we walk around it and pick up the free newspapers that litter the front steps. Also, we water the flowers.

They have a peach tree in the backyard and yesterday, while watering it, we found some peaches on the ground and couldn't resist taking them for tasting. I'm afraid we also plucked one which wasn't on the ground, but was in grave danger of falling. In essence, we saved it from the certain demise. Meg caught me in action afterward, and emailed me this photo titled "the Peach Thief".

Starbucks vs. English professor

Just as an add-on to my lament about cafes in the previous blog post: here’s the article showing you what I meant when I said the franchised cafes don’t care about customers and will never make me feel welcome and at home. The coffee store chain in question—Starbucks—insist so much on customers using their invented quasi-Italian terms when ordering, that they refuse to serve guests who don’t conform to their linguistic acrobatics. Read on...

Coffee culture (or lack of it)

I recently met an acquaintance at work, whom I haven’t seen for a while. We chatted for a few minutes, standing between the desks and blocking the path for all who needed to squeeze past us. Then I offered that we could go and have coffee, to which he replied “I don’t drink coffee.”

Duh!

I keep forgetting this is Canada. Coffee is only a beverage you purchase and burn your tongue with, if you’re not careful. I can’t seem to wrap my head around the complete lack of what I call the coffee-culture here, in my new homeland. Canadians picked up so much from all parts of the world, they look at Europe as a cradle of culture. Yet, they missed this coffee thing by a mile.

I spent the previous two thirds of my life in Croatia. There, as in every other Mediterranean country, when you went to a café, it’s presumed that you’ll spend some time in it. You opened a newspaper and, sooner or later, a friend, or a few, will come by and join you. We had cafes where we met casually, and cafes where we held more serious talks—the latter being of an upper-scale kind. Café was a meeting place, even an extension of your own home; you knew the waiters and they knew you; people from your social circle knew where to find you and you always knew where to go when you had time on hand. In the country notorious for business meetings that never resolved anything, café was the place where all the parties went after the unsuccessful meeting and where, more often then not, they found the solution and agreement. Many a business proposal was drafted on a napkin with a logo of a café in one of the corners.

And the funny thing is—I didn’t even drink coffee then.

To me, going for coffee is a social process. It means sitting down with a friend, leaving off your cell phone, your lap-top and all other distractions, and having a conversation. Whether it happens over a cup of coffee, or some other beverage, is beyond the point. What matters is that, for the duration of that drink, I give my full attention to a fellow human being. I know, that seems to be quite a foreign concept lately.

The problem, beside the complete lack of the coffee culture, is the lack of real cafes. Oh, don’t even get me started with Starbucks, Tim Horton’s or any other similar franchised disaster. By the nature of the franchise, they are built to look the same. They certainly feel the same, lacking any character whatsoever! They are pit-stops, where coffee-drinkers refill their coffee-tanks and rush away. The interaction with the staff is minimal, and you leave feeling like a number, just another customer with coffee, but without face and identity.

Fifteen years and counting, I’m still searching for a base away from home, a place where a waiter will know my name, where friends will know to find me, where gossip and news will be discussed with mates and strangers alike and where coffee is NOT served in buckets, but rather in a small cup on a small plate with a tea-spoon (why is it never called a coffee-spoon?) and a pack of sugar and cream, together with a glass of water.

The Angel's Game

The Angel's Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


It happens rarely that I come across two excellent books in succession, but that’s exactly what happened this August. I almost feel like I can stop reading for the year, because it’s unlikely I’ll find a third gem that can match, or surpass the craftiness of either Cutting For Stone or The Angel’s Game.

I am not the greatest fan of mysteries with a touch of paranormal, but Zafon wove his story so masterfully that, at the end, I’m not really sure if anything paranormal really happened, or it had all been the split-personality case. Except, of course, the epilog, which is as paranormal as it is sad, and a nice touch to crown the tale.

The main characters are drawn so vividly, you could almost feel them, as if they were three-dimensional. The dialogues are witty, sarcastic, funny, sad and with the concealed menace, depending of the situation. Zafon pulled me into the story from the first few lines, and held me fully immersed until the very end.

The audiobook I listened to was superbly read by Dan Stevens, who made all the characters and the city of Barcelona come alive.

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Cutting for Stone

Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


This is one of the books that makes you pause before you start reading another book, so you can digest and enjoy the feeling. A book that makes you sorry it ended. It takes off slowly and really grabs you somewhere half the way through, but then it doesn't let go. Very well written.

My only complaint is that the rift between the main character and the love of his life is described hurriedly, in a small chapter, and that's why I couldn't feel the true weight of the consequences. Had the author dedicate as much time to that crucial moment, as he did to all other parts of the story, it would be a true masterpiece.

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Thoughts about thoughts

The most perishable item of all is—thought. Imagine having a happy thought, bright and warm. Leave it for an hour, and a doubt creeps in. Another hour, and it morphed completely into the opposite of what it had been at the beginning—it turned into a hostile, destructive thing, festering in your mind and contaminating your other thoughts.

Not convinced? Let’s take an example. Think a thought of love, happy and fulfilling, of someone you love smiling at you. A moment later you wonder where she is. An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of the stomach: is she safe, is she feeling well, is she seeing someone else? It bothers you so much that you can’t resist calling her. She doesn’t pick up, and your thoughts turn the darkest shade of black. You imagine the worst scenario: she is lying in the hospital, or bleeding by the side of the road; or cuddling with someone with the phone switched off.

Of course, some thoughts have the unnatural ability to change back from black into pink, as it would happen the moment your darling returns the call, explaining she couldn’t pick it up for the valid reason.

Other thoughts, though, are the dangerous ones. The thought of not being appreciated at work or with friends, if not dispersed by a positive interaction, can mutate into deep dissatisfaction, even depression, and that is when a person can become dangerous for himself and the people around him.

You must be wondering what on earth am I rumbling about? Actually, I am just expanding on the blog of a few days ago: the smile I write about touched me deeper than I thought possible. It made me think about my own attitude, which was altering between moodiness, frustration and outright hostility. I thought: what if I changed the face I show to the outside world? What if, instead of the scowl, I approach the world with a smile?

It isn’t easy, after years of frowning, to suddenly wear a smile, but I am trying and the world is reacting. I can’t remember when was the last time so many people smiled and waved at me, as they did this past weekend. All because I smile and nod at them.

So, from now on, let’s paint the world in happy colors, using smile as a paintbrush.

Casillero del Diablo

It was a mistake I'm glad we made. We decided to try a Chilean wine. On the shelf were Casillero del Diablo malbec and merlot next to each other, and Meg grabbed merlot while going for malbec. We realized the mistake only when opening the bottle at home. But the wine was sweet and smooth and we will be going for more. Funny how some of the best things in life come to us by mistake.

Sangria at La Cabana

Saturday of the long weekend—Monday is a Civic holiday in Ontario—we went to Greektown for a stroll and something to eat. Not quite in mood for the grilled meat Greek-style, we opted for Mexican instead. That was a big mistake; we had mediocre enchiladas with watered-down sangria. Lesson learned: when in Little Greece, do what the little Greeks do—eat souvlaki.

Little moments: a smile

A curious thing happened this evening. I went for my usual 10k run. It rained when I started, but stopped soon after, yet it was wet enough to chase people indoors. Can't complain--I prefer deserted streets and sidewalks, rather than jumping over the dog leashes and around people unwilling to give me some space.

I realize I'm turning into a grouch, always expecting--and finding!-- the worst in everyone. I lost faith in people quite a while ago, exposed to the daily dose of egocentric behavior in all spheres of life: traffic, work, shopping, even on the nights out. The common courtesy is all but extinct, and people constantly invade my personal space, whether it's pushing in front of me in a lineup, trying to get over me at work, or cutting me off in traffic. It all puts me in a miserable mood by the end of the day.

Tonight, however, I felt hope. I was running on the sidewalk when I saw in front of me an old lady bent over her walker. I moved on the road to pass. As I came next to her, she stopped, straightened and her wrinkled face lit up with the broadest smile it was capable of. She waved at me and I couldn't help but smile and wave back. Little moments like this could make the world a better place. I'm smiling even now, when I think of that silver-haired grandma with the warmest smile.

Girls' Soccer

Meg and I went for a walk tonight. We do that often. More and more we are like an old couple, enjoying our evenings in leisurely walks around the neighborhood. We nod to the neighbors and strangers, we "goodevening" everyone we meet on the sidewalk and smile and wave to the kids. All in all, we resemble good-natured grandparents on a stroll through the hood.

It's amazing how many little things we come across on our walks: gardens--some amazing and some quite the opposite; houses--some neatly cared for and some in different degrees of neglect; birds, cats, squirrels and other animals, etc.

Tonight, though, was the night for soccer. We passed by several soccer pitches and all had games going. And I mean OFFICIAL games--in uniforms and with refs and spectators. We couldn't resist to check a teenage-girls game. Now, I'm not a great soccer player, not even close, but I love the game. And I can recognize when someone plays well. Those girls didn't.

It was a haphazard effort in which, no matter where the ball bounced, it always seemed to have surprised the players. The limbs were flailing around the ball, mostly not connecting. Occasionally someone would manage to hit the ball and the swarm of bodies would move to whichever direction the round object rolled.

At one instance two girls came running after the ball near the side where we stood. While the ball bounced away, the slower girl tripped on the legs of the girl in front and fell. The girl in front let the ball roll out of the pitch, and stopped to help the other girl up saying "Oh my God, are you alright?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
And the girl who didn't fall ran to get the ball and handed it to the other girl with a friendly smile.

It was pathetic to watch. Where is the killer-instinct to make use of the situation and, perhaps, score? But, I guess, it's sports-made-in-Canada for you: the important thing is to be polite and nice to each other, not to win the game. Could that be the reason why all sports in Canada, except hockey to some extent, are declining? Maybe they should teach those kids to compete rather than just having fun.

The Lost Symbol

The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


I knew when I started this book that I'm not in for a literary experience, but for an action-packed thriller. Even so, it was disappointing. Very predictable, slow to move and difficult to swallow. Too much lecturing on religion, mythology and symbolism, not nearly enough suspense to make it as unforgettable as The Da Vinci Code or Angels and Demons.

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Horse-country

It was a beautiful day, made for a drive--sunny, but not too hot. Humidity, which made us sweat extensively for the past month or so, was finally chased away by a persistent breeze. So, Meg and I decided to go to Barrie, about an hour drive north.

Barrie lays on lake Simcoe. Its waterfront is charming, but just like Toronto's, there are no attractions to make even those who are not into suntanning and seadooing, come out and play. We walked around Heritage Park, watched a huge, racially-mixed flock of geese and ducks claim the little pond behind a gazebo adorned with flower baskets. We continued on, treading carefully to avoid geese-poop which littered the whole waterfront, grass and the boardwalk. If you ask me, the Americans are doing us a favor by killing those birds when they fly down south. What use is poultry if you're not allowed to eat it?

Farther down the shore is a big splash-pool area crowded with shivering kids with purple lips, braving the chilly breeze soaked wet. The parents are dispersed everywhere on the grass surrounding the splash-pool, snapping cellphone pictures and generally not concerned with the prospect of the kids contracting pneumonia.

The street and stores in the area were mostly deserted. The only place that showed signs of activity and had a terrace overlooking the lake was Hooters, and I'm ashamed to admit I took my wife there for a drink. We sat under a fake orange palm tree, on terribly uncomfortable plastic Adirondack chairs (which are in Canada called Muskoka chairs, by the region in Ontario) and looked at the lake and the geese.

Returning home was a beautiful drive--we went all around the lake Simcoe and through the horse-country. I don't think I've ever seen so many ranches with horses. They were small and big, sliced with many corrals or open fields, with ponds and creeks and barns. And all of them had a few or many horses grazing and walking about. It felt like being far in the prairies, though we were not an hour drive from home.

No matter how well we think we know the area around home, there's always something new and wonderful to discover.

Time and Books

I never thought I'd quote Dan Brown, but here it is, a sentence from "The Lost Symbol":
"Time is a river, books are the boats"

A Candlelit Dinner

A wonderful candlelit dinner last night: prosciutto, baguette, pate, olives, cheese and a glass of Malbec. We'll have to repeat that soon.

Mid-life crisis?

According to this article in British Daily Mail (quoting a recent study), I suffer from a serious case of mid-life crisis. How do I know that? Because I run marathons, and I like it! Funny me, I thought I started running to keep in shape and re-gain strength after a bad case of herniated disk. I also thought I am doing races because I like the atmosphere and the challenge. But no--the Daily Mail set me straight. Apparently, I can't afford to buy a convertible sport car, or some other visible sign of mid-life crisis, so I opted for marathon exhaustion and bruised toenails instead. Who knew?

By the way, here's the definition quoted from Wikipedia:
"Midlife crisis is a term coined in 1965 by Elliott Jaques and used in Western societies to describe a period of dramatic self-doubt that is felt by some individuals in the "middle years" or middle age of life, as a result of sensing the passing of their own youth and the imminence of their old age. Sometimes, a crisis can be triggered by transitions experienced in these years, such as extramarital affairs, andropause or menopause, the death of parents or other causes of grief, unemployment or underemployment, realizing that a job or career is hated but not knowing how else to earn an equivalent living, or children leaving home. The result may be a desire to make significant changes in core aspects of day-to-day life or situation, such as in career, work-life balance, marriage, romantic relationships, big-ticket expenditures, or physical appearance."

Hmmmm, is that something telling me it's time to make some changes on the career path?

Double uncle

Meg's sister gave birth to a baby-girl today, making us aunt and uncle for the second time. Eagerly awaiting to see pictures of the baby.

It's Spain!

The World Cup is over. It's been a long month with a lot of soccer. The final game was painful to watch: slow, nervous, frustrating, with lots of fouls and bad refereeing. Of the two lousy teams, the better one won. What surprised me was how dirty the Dutch played. For example, take this karate kick of De Jong on Alonso, it was a classic red-card foul, but he got away with "only" a yellow, and lived to foul other players. At the end, the Dutch got what they deserved--they lost! Viva Espana!

P.S.
Just to prove I'm not the only one calling the Dutch team dirty, here's what one of their own--Holland legend Johan Cruyff--said about their finals game:
Cruyff disgusted by Dutch display

Also, Paul Parker's football blog:
Dirty Dutch a disgrace to football

Spain

If it wasn't obvious from my previous posts, I just want to officially say that I am cheering for Spain against the Dutch in the World Cup final on Sunday! Go Spain! I mean--OLE!

Signs

When we came back home from work on Wednesday, there were SIGNS on our lawn. No, not really the kind of signs Mel Gibson found in his corn field in the movie, but still disconcerting kind of red and orange markings on the lawn. I don't think it has anything to do with the colors of the football World Cup finalists Netherlands (orange) and Spain (red) who will play for the world champion title on Sunday. The ominous signs bring the feeling that something will change in our lives, at least temporarily. Someone will dig something (most likely cables or pipes) and ruin our backyard! Maybe we should call good ol' Mel (Gibson) for help to fight the aliens?

Hey, while you're looking at the inauspicious signs on our lawn, check the garage-door frame. Nice color, eh? Yeah, we did it