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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