Longest run

This morning I completed my longest run. I can’t remember the longest run of my youth, but ever since I re-discovered running in November last year, this is my personal longest: 14.26 km. On my iPod+ Nike set I was congratulated by Lance Armstrong for completing my longest workout to date. But even more important than (pre-recorded) Lance’s congrats is the personal victory. About two years ago I suffered herniated disc which pinched a spinal nerve and numbed my left leg. For about a month the leg was numb and although I could walk, I could not control it when climbing the stairs or when getting out of the car, off the chair in the office, etc. More often than not, I ended up sitting on the floor, left leg balking under me. During the 2-month-long physiotherapy I re-gained the feeling in the leg, but it stayed weaker and prone to cramps. Jokingly, I told the physiotherapist that I supposed running marathon is out of question. He smiled and said I could do it if I set my mind to it. Well, judging by the run today, I am on the right path.

After that victorious run we visited our favorite dim sum restaurant Ruby’s in Scarborough. There I found the Ten Commandments for Drinking Tea, which I selflessly want to share with you here:

Maggie, my Asian doll, was in charge for ordering bite-sized delicacies from the passing carts. Sure, I could have done that too, but I’d need to resort to the sign language, because I don’t speak Chinese and the ladies pushing the carts don’t speak English. So I just leaned back and watched Maggie in her element. She asked me why I like looking at her? I could not explain that every move of hers is like a dance of a butterfly in mid-air, and all the pirouettes of her arms, all the nods, smiles and winks are so familiar, yet so new to me that I’ll never tire watching her. Instead, I just smiled.

Ahhhhh, Barcelona! Here we come!
It’s official—we booked the plane tickets, redeemed all the travel points collected on our Visa cards, and come September we’ll be enjoying the vacation in Spain. We’ll have 14 days to explore Barcelona, its Gaudi, Picasso and Dali, its food, life, culture and people. Maggie is busy compiling the list of the places we should see—I’m afraid it’ll grow quite long in the 4 months until the trip, but at least the countdown has begun. We squabble about the hotel booking; we want it cheap and in downtown, but “cheap”, “downtown” and “Barcelona” don’t go together in the same sentence.

I love what I do, but I hate my job!

I love what I do, but I hate my job!
I am a multimedia producer. They say I’m good. But I have no control over the projects I’m creating. I am stuck rescuing other people’s bad ideas and making them look good. As a result, I am increasingly frustrated, stressed and disgruntled. I think it’s time to find a new job. Anybody needs a good video/audio producer and editor?

OK, moving onto more cheerful and definitely more voluptuous subject--a local girl has become the Playboy's Playmate of the Year - Jayde Nicole from Port Perry, Ontario, had all the attributes needed for the title. No wisecrack comments necessary.

Last week I finished Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book “Love in the time of cholera”. Like any good book, it caused controversy at the online book club on Facebook (mea culpa, I am a member). I’m glad I didn’t read the comments before reading the book, because I really liked it. How puritan Americans and Canadians are when it comes to the matter of love, romance and sexuality, how double-faced and quick to judge! Someone even wrote on the forum how disgusting is the description of the lovemaking of the main characters, both in their late 70s. To me, the only disgusting thing is that comment. I can only wish that my Maggie and me discover the same flame when and if we approach 8th decade.

I love listening to an audiobook during my daily runs. I usually go from 30 min to 90 min, longest runs on the weekend, and I already know all the music on my iPod, so audiobooks are quite a discovery. They keep my mind focused on the plot rather than my aching legs and the whole exercise is less painful. So, when I discovered podiobooks.com, it was like being left alone in a candy store when I was 5 (that, unfortunately, never happened). All the independent, emerging authors’ self-published audio books! There are a few duds, but most of them are quite good. The one that keeps me company now is “7th Son: Book Two – Deceit” by J.C. Hutchins.

Curry

It’s funny how they build houses these days. We bought a new house recently and standing on our porch I can stretch my arm and touch our neighbor’s house. That’s how close they are. The neighbor’s kitchen vent exhaust blows straight into our entrance. To make the matter spicier, the neighbor is Indian. They cook with a lot of curry. And I mean A LOT. I came out on the porch to pick up the newspaper today and in 5 seconds I was exposed to the “smellements” my sweater soak in the scent of curry. It makes me worried that our wall on that side may turn yellow. Maybe I should try subtly to change the neighbor’s diet? I could inconspicuously leave some recipes, maybe even cook some curry-less dishes and leave them at their door, ring and hide…
Alas, instead of me influencing them, the smell of curry made my better half crave Indian food and we ended up ordering a take out from Tikka Tikka, our local Indian poisoner.

If someone ever stumbles across this text many years from now, the most remarkable event to remember would be the U.S. Democratic Party elections for the presidential candidate. We will remember the first black president-wannabe Barack Obama squaring off against the first female president-wannabe Hillary Clinton. Obama reminds me so much of the black president Wayne Palmer from the TV spy series “24”. The problem is that DB Woodside, the actor who plays president Palmer, is too much of an actor, and too little a president, if you know what I mean. He comes across as overly self-confident, even cocky, and pretty empty. The same impression I get after watching Mr. Obama. Not that I’m any more inclined toward Hillary, but luckily no one cares where my preferences lay—I’m Canadian, after all, and have nothing to do with the slugfest down south. Except the fact that usually the whole world pays when Americans choose the wrong guy (see George W. Bush). Let’s hope they’ll be wiser this time around, for everybody’s sake.

Rainy run

Yesterday I had a job in downtown Toronto. So I descended there a bit early, worried I might get caught in traffic, which left me some time for a coffee at a window-seat in the business area. The view was fascinating. I usually avoid rush hours in downtown at all cost. Since I couldn’t avoid it this time, I actually found ways to enjoy it. I watched the tides of people and cars, raising and falling like breasts of the town, breathing people across the intersections, spouting cars along the streets. Sculls of businessmen in smart suits with briefcases would swim to the red light and stop like a single living organism, followed by smaller fish of businesswomen in suits or skirts, clacking their heels and occasionally dragging their wheeled cases. The smaller fish would intermingle with big and, on green, the scull would contract a little, then swim forth, dispersing in the busy morning.

Wednesday was a miserable affair, wet and rainy, not fun for my 8 km run, but I braved the elements and ran. Actually, I quite enjoyed the run—there was no dogwalkers, they all kept indoors with their pe(s)ts. Not that I dislike dogs, I just have hard time with the combination of the dog with the owner, especially when they are attached to each other with a leash. They are a curse for a runner, they tend to separate across the sidewalk, the owner on one side, the dog across and the leash as a perfect obstacle cutting my running route. That’s why I mostly run on the road, to save my nerves and my legs from the dog+owner+leash deadly combo. Anyway, today was a dog-free day, thanks to the rain, and I enjoyed it for the full 8 km.

A Man With a Hammer

"To the man with a hammer every problem seems like a nail"
Mark Twain, as quoted by Newsweek On Air (which I listened on the podcast during my Monday’s run)

Radio plays in the car on the way to work. This morning the operatic pop singer Josh Groban calls the station from one of his tour stops somewhere in Europe. He is often a guest on the show and has taken quite a liking to the hosts Mike & Erin. Besides, it's all great promotion for him. He is a likable kid. But, oh boy, is he talking fast! Like he needs to compensate for all the slow, mellow melodies he delivers on stage. His words come out welded to each other without the space between. I wished he would sing out in his melodious way whatever is that he's trying to say, so I could stop straining to un-weld his words and grasp the meaning.

It’s amazing how some news can grate on your nerves. There has been a cyclone which ravaged Myanmar this past weekend. Another freak weather tragedy, just like the freak tornado in Arkansas last week, which came way too early for the tornado season and killed a few unsuspecting Arkansans. Myanmar used to be known as Burma before its ruling military junta turned it into Myanmar with a single wave of its magic wand, or rather magic tank. The country is in densely populated southeast Asia and could count on higher numbers of casualties than Arkansas. But tens of thousands? And we find out about such astronomical number FOUR days later? Because the military guys, for unknown reason, decided to keep the numbers under the cover, until they became too big to conceal! At least, the ruling gang finally accepted offer of foreign help, which they declined last time when tsunami swiped the country.

Finding ski-legs

I was born with a set of long legs. OK, that's probably an overstatement -- I was born as a normal, tiny, crying bundle, but soon my lower limbs showed inclination towards unusual lengths. It would be every girl's dream, but, alas, I was born a boy! Luckily, Mother Nature solved this by covering my legs with hair -- not too much, just enough so they wouldn't be mistaken for girl's legs.

For Family Day weekend, the first ever in Ontario, I ended up with a couple of pieces of lumber attached to those legs of mine and was trying to remember the long-forgotten art of skiing I used to know in my early twenties. To my delight, the balance, the turns, the rush of wind on my face and of joy in my veins came back to me at once. After 18 years, I still know how to ski! Not bad for a Canadian-wannabe. If I could only get rid of the accent, I could easily be mistaken for the Canadian-born, Slavic features and Greek profile notwithstanding.

My exploration of the Canadian snow slopes was limited, for now, to Moonstone, a ski resort on Mt. St. Louis just north of Barrie, ON. Neat place to grow back your snow legs, after such a long pause. Although, if possible, try to stay away from it during the holidays! Family Day packed over 3500 skiers on around 10 running lifts and skiing was a perfect resemblance of a video game in which objects on skis and snowboards could materialize in front of you at any turn, or can run you over from behind. But, unlike the video games, you get unlimited number of lives to get up, dust the snow off and continue. I must say I was lucky not to ride the collision course, but my partner for life had a few close calls and didn't like it. I myself prefer skiing with space for turns, rather than doing it in a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. It reminded me of trying to ski through a TTC bus during the rush-hour. Watch for your poles, don't hit the fellow would-be-skier behind. And watch for those damn snowboarders, they'll take you down, cut you right under the knees where you stand no chance of staying afoot!

That is exactly why we came back a day later - a workday Tuesday! Oh, what a pleasure, what an unbound skiing experience, a freedom and width of slopes for us to enjoy fully. Sure, they were a few overconfident teenagers on slopes with the school, mostly testing how close they can get to us on their snowboards, checking if they can make us fall without touching us. Of course, "sorry" is not in the vocabulary of the new generation of ski-bandits. Fortunately, along with the long legs, Mom Nature gifted me with bushy eyebrows and a fierce glare which kept the snow-thugs at a distance.

I am writing these lines with sore arms and legs, and a couple of naughty bruises on my shins, curtesy of rented ski-boots, but happy that I found my snowy self again. I can't wait to hit the slopes again.

Writer's Block

I suffer from the writer’s block! Which is absolutely surprising, considering that I’m not a writer. Yet, every time I sit down to write, I hit the block.

See, I carry all these little stories and ideas in my head. Most of the time they lay dormant within the cozy emptiness of my cranium, but sometimes they spring to life and hit the conscious level and I feel an irresistible urge to write them down. Unfortunately, these lucid moments always happen when writing is impossible: when I drive, when I’m in the midst of a very important meeting or in a bathtub and light years away from the closest piece of paper, or a computer. Of course, I always make a special effort to memorize them, which becomes particularly cumbersome at meetings and makes me stutter. But, when I finally sit in front of the computer and am ready to pour the story on the screen, I can’t find it. It’s gone, withdrawn in the deepest, darkest areas of my mind.

So, here I am, ready to share the world with you, but unable to find the thread which will start unraveling the story.

Listening to Alan Johnston's story

On a rainy Saturday morning, there's no better way to start the day than with a coffee and an episode of one of my favorite podcasts. Today I clicked on the BBC's From Our Own Correspondent series, The Alan Johnston story, which you can hear here, or read here.

I sat frozen and listened as his tale told in his own voice described the ordeal he went through. I couldn't help but reflect to my own, not nearly so dramatic, experience as a war correspondent. I may have been lucky for not being captured, or shot and killed during my 4 years of roaming through Bosnia as a photojournalist. I felt almost ashamed that the dangers I faced don't match up to those of Alan's, or other foreign correspondents around the world. Yet, I was there along some of the greatest stars of print, radio and TV news reporting, from Christiane Amanpour of CNN, to BBC's Martin Bell and Kate Adie. I reported, or rather photographed, the same stories, shared the same dangers and many fun moments. But, of course, I was never nearly as important, being a "local hire". Although working for the Associated Press, I never became one of them. To put us, locals, in our place, even UN made a "racial" distinction and issued a yellow press accreditations for the locally hired foreign correspondents, and the blue ones for the "real" foreigners. For over a year, until the Nazi-like rules of distinction was struck down, the yellow IDs were not allowed on UN flights to and from Sarajevo, some UN convoys and even some UN bases in the country. On the UN priority list, when it comes to helping foreign press, the yellow marked ones were the lowest grade.

Today, Alan's recount from Gaza brought back the memory of an instance when I was stopped on a mountain pass by a check point manned by fighters whose faces were wrapped in green scarf. It was, actually, a quite uneventful episode in which a barrel of a heavy machine gun on the hill was following my every move and in which one of the two green-clad men who checked my car for weapons had his Kalashnikov in my stomach for the whole time.

On another instance I was detained together with a Spanish AP photographer for photographing a bridge. We were taken to a small room with a desk, where our interrogator sat, flanked by armed men and questioned for hours. All our possessions were taken: our car, cameras, flak vests, winter coats. We were rescued by a chain of lucky circumstances-my Spanish colleague carried a letter for a commander of a Spanish UN troops based in town. The letter had a Spanish Defence Ministery header, which made our captors nervous, so much so that they let us, under guard, to go to deliver the letter. As soon as we reached the gates of the Spanish UN base, we ran through it, leaving the guards outside the fence.
Then a Spanish UN took us back and even negotiated to have all our stuff returned. Our car was freshly washed and readied to be painted. Later we found out that the local fighters' commander fancied our little all-terrain car so much that he accused us of being spies and photographing a military object (bridge) in order to confiscate it. He planned to have us either executed, or tossed to a prison. Even when we were taken to the UN, he thought he'll get away with it if only they remove the vehicle fast. But, for the one and only time in my life, the UN moved swiftly and we left unscratched and with all our things returned, minus films and notebooks.

Those, and many other instances when I dealt with mad, armed people, when I had guns pointed or even shot at me, surfaced while listening to Alan Johnston. And a thought crept in-all it needed was a one unfortunate moment and one of those men could lose his cool and pull the trigger. A wrong word, a wrong look or a wrong move and I'd never have a chance to type this words. Then, I was in late 20s and all seemed like a game. Today, with the help of Alan reflecting on the meaning of life as he learned in captivity, I got to re-live some of my own smaller trials. And I, just like him, feel lucky to be alive and so happy to be here. 

The House

It was an unusually cold weekend in April 2005, with weather deciding between the snow and rain. Clouds were thick over Toronto, not your perfect day for shopping. Especially not for shopping for a house!
We found ourselves driving through the desolate area north east of town, where we haven't been before. Lately, we spent many weekends driving around and looking for the house sales centers, more to check the model houses than from the real interest in buying. As usually we were in different moods: Margaret loved touring sales centers and their model homes. She didn't mind sales people's endless pestering about everything in our lives that could make them "help" us choose the right model for our "future home". Nor did she mind their disapproving looks when we rushed by, to yet another series of overpriced model houses.
I, on the other hand, hated having to fend off the pesky sales people, taking off the shoes and wandering barefoot through the houses we can't afford, furnished and decorated with arguable lack of good taste. I expected nothing different on that miserable Saturday, when we rushed into a sales centre to hide from the wind and snow mixed with rain. The centre was just open, they had no model houses to show, all there was to see were designers' drawings, floor plans and a model of the neighborhood. Not in a hurry to return to the weather elements outside, we, for change, paid attention to the salesperson introducing the community plans on the model. It was a promising plan with parks and walking paths, forest, playgrounds, and more. We allowed the salesman to lure us inside to check the house models posters hanging around the centre and the strangest thing happened! We found a house, or rather, we found a picture of a house we'd really like to have. Conveniently, there was a mortgage specialist on site, who quickly went through the numbers with me and convinced me we could just make the mortgage requirements. Barely, but still, we could pull it off. And, before we both really realized what happened, Margaret and me were sitting in the small office within the sales centre, signing the papers. There was no thinking, re-thinking, re-calculating and all other "re-things" people normally do before tying such a hefty mortgage around their necks. We just closed our eyes and signed. As a colleague would tactfully put it later, we signed our lives away without thinking twice. Funny thing, there was an awe in his voice when he said it.

Then, for almost a year, nothing happened. Our house was supposed to be built by the end of August 2006. We had a brief burst of excitement when, in spring, the construction started in the farm field where our future home was going to be, only to be put down by the explanation: the houses being built were not on our street, but the street behind. Our street was still under remnants of the corn field. Later, we got a letter informing us that the move-in date has been postponed for 4 months. Although we were told that was going to happen by everyone who ever bought a new house, it still deflated our enthusiasm greatly. In the meantime the model houses were built and we visited them often, dreaming aloud about furnishing our own house soon. Finally, a row of holes was dug along what was to become our street. I never thought a hole in the ground would make me so happy, but this particular one became the basement of our home. We spied on it every weekend from the upper level of one of the model houses, until there was another row of houses built in between, obscuring the view. We drove by several times and were always sent away by the security on site. It was becoming really difficult to check the progress of our own house, for which we already paid 10% deposit. There was nothing to do but wait.

It seemed that everyone else involved in our house-buying waited until the very last moment, too. The mortgage broker wasn't returning our calls until two weeks before the closing date. Then, finally, everything happened at once, overwhelming us in a flurry of activities: the mortgage papers were signed, the lawyer engaged, the house inspection date set, etc. Late in December, the builder rushed to finalize the deal before the year's end. On December 29th, the last workday in 2006, we found ourselves waiting in front of the lawyers office to close the deal. Two hours later, with no sign of the lawyer, we started going through the emergency scenario we didn't really have. Our apartment was cancelled, we had no place to stay and nowhere to go. The lawyer's assistant recognized that we are both quickly reaching the heart-attack point and finally tracked him down. Alas, he forgot about the appointment and decided to start the New Years holidays a day earlier! Cornered and ashamed, he showed up in 15 minutes. We moved into the house in the afternoon.

Badlands of Caledon

Cheltenham Badlands with its fantastic land formation, brought back the kids in us. Without thinking we were climbing, crawling, running, jumping and sliding over it.