That was a long drive - 5 hours each way, to the southern rim of the Canyon. But, it was well worth it! It started with the breakfast in the same diner - The Coffee Cup is its name - in Boulder City. Then onward across Arizona's highways to the Grand Canyon National Park. There were many cars and quite a lot of tourists. The elk was around and feeding near the road and people stopped everywhere, making it difficult to pass, to take pictures of the elk, despite the enormous sign at the entrance warning not to approach the elk and other wildlife as it could be dangerous. The digital camera revolution which placed it in everyone's cell phone, made a paparazzi out of everyone. Disgusting.
The Canyon was breathtaking, as I knew it would be, and as I remembered. The vastness of it, the redness, the beauty! It's one of those rare things in life that can be neither described in words, nor captured in pictures--the only way to experience it is to be there! To stand at the edge of the crumbly rock, to look at its belly with horizontal layers of pink rock sliced through by many millennia of floods and winds; to feel its grand-ness and your own insignificance. That's where the Nature made sure to show off its work and put a human into perspective, as if saying: "Look what I can do, and you'll stay just one of my minor creations, small, unimportant and vain, until I make you perish".
We stopped at a few viewpoints, took our pictures, squeezed by the others armed with cameras, clicking and snapping away. All along I craved to sit down somewhere, away from the tourists (impossibility at that touristy photo-stretch of the canyon) put down my camera, let the wind sing to my ears through the ancient rocks and let the canyon talk to me in its many sounds. To allow the heart to fill up with it, if that was at all possible.
The weather must have also been fed up with us tourists, because it sent a huge mass of clouds which slowly cast a deep shadow over the canyon, but not before we reached the end and saw it all. Maybe Mother Nature felt my deep respect for its artwork and allowed us to finish admiring it, before she sent the rain along to wash out the human maggots.
We drove back to Vegas between the two storm systems, with rain lines trailing visibly from the clouds to the left and an impressive lightning show to the right of us. But, other than a few drops on the windshield of our rented Chrysler, we passed through mostly dry.
The problem turned out to be finding a place to eat--we stopped again in Boulder City at 9 PM, but all the restaurants we saw along the way were closed already. So, on we went to Vegas, returned the car at the after hours drop off at Stratosphere hotel and casino and had another Denny's dinner across the street from it, before grabbing a cab to our hotel.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Hoover Dam & Red Rock
Fed up with the Strip, we picked up the rental car I booked yesterday, and headed out of town.
It was a gorgeous day to visit Hoover Dam, though it was hot. Mom had hard time walking under the scorching sun, but enjoyed the view. After walking (a little) across the dam and taking pictures, we drove up to the new bridge they built way above the dam. It wasn't built yet when M and I were married in Vegas 13 years ago, but now it's dominating the view over the canyon, the dam and the lake Meade. As expected, there were hordes of tourists.
After the heat exposure at the dam, we needed a shade and a cold beer, and M guided us to Boulder City, where we sat at a diner in which the present time was still 1955. The walls were of sheet metal, covered with pictures of soldiers and water skiers. There was a long bar along one side, where locals had their lunch and coffee and chatted amiably with waiters and each other. The locals were friendly and chatty with us too - I had a brief conversation while waiting for the loo with a man who lived his whole life in Boulder City and informed me that the winter is "harsh" there with temperatures dropping to around 20 C!
Outside the diner, which advertised mouthwatering homemade cinnamon rolls, but ran out of them, we had an ice cream in a local shop in a strip along the main street. The rest were family houses on beautiful lawns, clean and picturesque, like a postcard from the time long past, on which the colors somehow managed not to fade. Then it was on to Red Rock.
The Red Rock park was something completely else. Breathtaking views of the sand and water washed red sand-rocks, some bleached to pink, with white stripes showing the currents that shaped it in the past, others were red rocks topped with white rocks, then further down the Nature's painter reversed the colors and put white rocks topped with red. We climbed down a little slope, took pictures left and right and realized in how bad a shape mom really is, when she couldn't lift her leg to mount an ankle-height rock climbing back up toward the car. She went over it on her knees, brushing everything off with a smile, but the fact that she is so immobile makes me worried.
After a longish drive around the park and more stops for picture-snapping, it was time for dinner at a Vegas' suburb in a sports bar which had a wing and beer special, so that is what we had.
To crown the almost-perfect day, M and I went for a swim at the hotel's pool in the atrium. It's under the open sky with palm trees and a jacuzzi. It wasn't much of a swim, because the pool was only 3 ft deep, but we enjoyed it. The best part was when M brought two glasses of Californian red wine from the bar and we lounged on the chairs, alone in the pool area, and sipped. Then we sipped some more in a jacuzzi, and finally were washed up enough for bed.
It was a gorgeous day to visit Hoover Dam, though it was hot. Mom had hard time walking under the scorching sun, but enjoyed the view. After walking (a little) across the dam and taking pictures, we drove up to the new bridge they built way above the dam. It wasn't built yet when M and I were married in Vegas 13 years ago, but now it's dominating the view over the canyon, the dam and the lake Meade. As expected, there were hordes of tourists.
After the heat exposure at the dam, we needed a shade and a cold beer, and M guided us to Boulder City, where we sat at a diner in which the present time was still 1955. The walls were of sheet metal, covered with pictures of soldiers and water skiers. There was a long bar along one side, where locals had their lunch and coffee and chatted amiably with waiters and each other. The locals were friendly and chatty with us too - I had a brief conversation while waiting for the loo with a man who lived his whole life in Boulder City and informed me that the winter is "harsh" there with temperatures dropping to around 20 C!
Outside the diner, which advertised mouthwatering homemade cinnamon rolls, but ran out of them, we had an ice cream in a local shop in a strip along the main street. The rest were family houses on beautiful lawns, clean and picturesque, like a postcard from the time long past, on which the colors somehow managed not to fade. Then it was on to Red Rock.
The Red Rock park was something completely else. Breathtaking views of the sand and water washed red sand-rocks, some bleached to pink, with white stripes showing the currents that shaped it in the past, others were red rocks topped with white rocks, then further down the Nature's painter reversed the colors and put white rocks topped with red. We climbed down a little slope, took pictures left and right and realized in how bad a shape mom really is, when she couldn't lift her leg to mount an ankle-height rock climbing back up toward the car. She went over it on her knees, brushing everything off with a smile, but the fact that she is so immobile makes me worried.
After a longish drive around the park and more stops for picture-snapping, it was time for dinner at a Vegas' suburb in a sports bar which had a wing and beer special, so that is what we had.
To crown the almost-perfect day, M and I went for a swim at the hotel's pool in the atrium. It's under the open sky with palm trees and a jacuzzi. It wasn't much of a swim, because the pool was only 3 ft deep, but we enjoyed it. The best part was when M brought two glasses of Californian red wine from the bar and we lounged on the chairs, alone in the pool area, and sipped. Then we sipped some more in a jacuzzi, and finally were washed up enough for bed.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Las Vegas Strip
Today was a full day of the strip, at the end of which all three of us concluded one day of Vegas is quite enough! After a breakfast at Boulevard Mall, where I managed to buy the SIM card from T-mobile and officially got us connected to the internet, we headed to the Venetian casino, where mom was sufficiently and appropriately amazed. After that was a long-ish walk to the Paris casino, with stops along the way, dinner at McDonalds (I know, I know, but the overpriced and underserved food in overcrowded casino restaurants didn't appeal to us after the whole day), the fountain show at Belaggio, Margaritas in a Mexican bar across the street from the fountain, while waiting for the nightfall, another fountain show and quick feel of the night on the strip together with crowds, and back to the hotel around 9. We booked a rental car for tomorrow - god bless the Internet on the phone, which flows freely now - and tomorrow we'll be going out of town.
A few quick observations - women, especially young ones, dress up at night, although some may say they undress. There's a lot of flesh, some pleasant to look at, some not so much. Lots of mini skirts barely covering sensitive parts, lots of legs. At some point at night a girl ran by barefoot from one hotel toward another, in an undershirt, wearing nothing down but the bikini bottom. Ah, Vegas.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Las Vegas
My mom is visiting, she arrived last week and, since she believes she wouldn't be able to endure such a long trip again, we wanted to make this time memorable, so we booked a surprise trip to Las Vegas, leaving today.
The flight was uneventful, but good. Landed in Vegas in time, found the hotel--Renaissance hotel on Paradise rd. away from the strip, to stay away from the noise and bustle.
After settling in, we went for a walk with mom to the strip. It was almost an hour of slow slog through the desert heat. Finally there and famished, we found Dany's restaurant for dinner, which was disappointing mostly because they didn't serve alcohol. We were fantasizing about beer ever since the first breath of that overheated air. Finally, mom couldn't walk any longer and we managed to take a cab back to the hotel.
After dropping mom off to rest, M and I returned to the strip. Vegas is crowded during the day--that is, the Strip is crowded, away from the Strip, it's a desert--metaphorical and real--but at night the crowds multiply tenfold. Walking the street becomes a fight for survival, and it became a bit too much for our tired minds picking the way through the crowds waiting for the Treasure Island pirate show. Finally, we stepped on the street going back to our hotel and tried to hail a cab. After about 20 minutes and numerous cabs zooming past empty, we went, pissed, to a hotel and grabbed one there. It turns out in Vegas cabs are not allowed to pick up fares on the street, it has to be at a taxi station - either at a hotel, casino, or any of numerous other spots. Who would've known!
The flight was uneventful, but good. Landed in Vegas in time, found the hotel--Renaissance hotel on Paradise rd. away from the strip, to stay away from the noise and bustle.
After settling in, we went for a walk with mom to the strip. It was almost an hour of slow slog through the desert heat. Finally there and famished, we found Dany's restaurant for dinner, which was disappointing mostly because they didn't serve alcohol. We were fantasizing about beer ever since the first breath of that overheated air. Finally, mom couldn't walk any longer and we managed to take a cab back to the hotel.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Buddy Guy
Sounds like a blues song. But, it's true. It's all Buddy Guy's fault - that old rascal with the devil in his guitar fingers. The concert last night filled my head with blues and even now, the morning after, it goes through my head: gypsy woman told my mamma way before I was born - you got a boy-child coming, gonna be a son of a gun...
As I sip the first coffee of the day, while my darling still lays in bed, felled by the late night with almost too much blues, my fingers remember it all, memorize it on the keyboard for the diary. The bad seats, way up on the highest level of the Massey Hall and so much to the side that we could see only half of the stage. The unruly crowd, dropping in almost an hour after the concert started, fidgeting, coming out frequently of the narrow seat row - and making the whole row stand up - to go to pee, or grab another beer. The 14-year-old guitar god Quinn Sullivan who opened for the man of the night. The blonde woman so stoned, she almost fell over the railing - oh, and she propped herself on Margo's head while stumbling over the stairs to go to the loo. And with all that, we enjoyed the show. More than that - we loved it.
Buddy Guy is a guitar virtuoso in his own right, a thing I didn't know about the man, having heard of him for the first time when we were in his blues restaurant in Chicago last October. He sang one song then, and didn't play the guitar. We googled him afterward to figure out who was that old geezer who so obviously enjoyed himself on the stage. It was quite a humbling surprise to find out he's a legend, to see his pictures performing with Clapton, the Stones, B.B. King and many others. Of course we couldn't let him pass through Toronto without seeing him again. And he didn't disappoint. He played the guitar, and he played with it. He played it with his fingers, rubbed it on his shirt, strummed it with the drummer's stick. He sang, he teased the crowd, he joked. He rocked, and he bluesed. He rose us all to our feet, and he left us standing when he was gone, without an encore. He filled the night, our hearts and our heads with blues.
Walking to the car, our bums numb from the hard wooden seats which must have been designed for torture instead of pleasant viewing of the show, we realized we paid the price for being too cheap. Next time there will be higher priced tickets with softer seats and the straight view of the whole stage.
Monday, March 18, 2013
The last birthday party
I pick up M from work and we drive home through gale winds that threaten to overturn our little car. We pass by several snow-plow trucks idling at the side of the road, ready to spring into action. Before we're home, flurries crumble from the grey clouds overhead and slide down on the wind. The white tempest whirls around, mocking our wistful calls for Spring. It's too late to be snowing, we tell each other. And yet, snow pelts the windshield of our car spitefully, as if the winter has only started. M says she hates Canada. Then she corrects herself - she hates winter in Canada. In such a weather so late in March, all I can do is nod in agreement. We haven't had even a hint of Spring yet. There were clear sunny days in the last few weeks, true, but you could enjoy those only indoors. Outside, the wind was relentless, freezing the joy right on your face. Naturally, I thought of Croatia of my youth, where Spring seems to arrive on time, where snow is a rare and unusual thing in March. Then, to prove me wrong, my memories take me to my 15th birthday, on April 19, 1980.
---
That was supposed to be a big day and a big birthday for me. I never was a social animal, or a popular kid in the class. I was a shy, lanky one. I had a few close friends, I wasn't a loner. But for the 15th birthday I stepped out of my shell of shyness and invited about two dozen friends. The party was going to be prepared by my grandparents who lived an hour by train away from Zagreb, my hometown. The day started grey and rainy, but that couldn't dampen my mood. In the morning a couple of kids from school called to say they wouldn't come, but I expected a few cancellations, what with the train travel and all. The number was still over twenty. It would be fun, I knew.
Around noon, as I rode the streetcar to the train station, the rain turned into snow. The wind picked up, just like today, and whipped the wet, heavy flakes in my face, stinging my eyes and dripping down my nose as I stood next to the newspaper kiosk at the station where we agreed to meet. Soon, the gang started arriving - a judo teammate, a friend from school, a neighbor. All was well. Two more came soon after. And - no one else. We waited. I went to make a few phone calls. Friends were apologetic - it's snowing outside, they assumed the party was off. It wasn't planned to be outside, I protest. They know, but now it's too late to make it to the train station. They are sorry. They all sounded false, snug in their warm homes. And just like that, what was supposed to be the grandest birthday party of my life, became a sad little procession of a few friends.
The others tried to cheer me up. I laughed half-heartedly at their jokes, but I couldn't get the betrayal out of my head. We arrived to my grandparents' place. They worked and lived at a gym, so they "commissioned" a large meeting room, dragged in two long desks and benches, then loaded it with treats. They worked on my birthday party the whole day, preparing the place and food. There was roasted piglet, roasted chickens, several kind of salads, potatoes, pasta, home baked bread and other pastries. There was so much food, it was literally spilling from the plates. On a square table in the corner were sweets, waiting for the main course to be dispatched of by the horde of hungry teenagers. Grandma made sure all my favorites were there: rum-pie, apple strudel, walnut and poppy-seed rolls, chocolate balls, and many more. Amidst that feast stood the six of us, lost and not quite hungry.
Grandma, seeing what happened, disappeared downstairs to their apartment. We goofed around, ate a little and played records. Then grandma reappeared with kids from the neighborhood. I used to play with them when I was younger, spending Summer holidays at grandparents', but we've fallen out of touch. I'm not sure what grandma told them, but here they were, four girls and two boys, clutching hastily wrapped gifts which they had no time to buy, so they must have been their own, previously used things. I didn't really care for the gifts. The surprising appearance of those six, whom I neglected to invite at the first place, yet here they were, leaving whatever they were doing and showing up to reinforce our numbers - it touched me deeply, and made me ashamed in equal measure. Suddenly the room wasn't so big and empty any longer. It took a while to get into the party mood, with us being from the "big town", and the newcomers feeling inferior, but the gap, if there ever was one, was soon bridged with a few mean jokes that made us all laugh equally.
Hours later, fed to bursting, we sang around a friend who played guitar - grandpa graciously let us use his - laughed and enjoyed our time. We even snuck into the gym after, to play some sort of a ball game in the dark. We were shadows in the night, the only light a faint moonlight through the windows. We played dodge the ball, and the hilarity of the ball's thud as it connected with the flesh, followed by inevitable grunt of the targeted, sent us sprawling on the floor in fits of laughter.
Riding the train back home on now clear night, snow all but melted away, I realized who my true friends were. They were sitting next to me on the train, or sleeping exhausted at home after such an impromptu party. The others…well, they actually didn't matter.
I never held a birthday party again. Oh, I celebrated birthdays, always in a small circle of close friends I cared about. Lately, those are few and far between, but M and I manage to make even the most mundane birthday feel like a celebration of life! It never snowed on my birthday again.
Although, the way the winter isn't letting up, maybe this year I'll have a white birthday.
---
That was supposed to be a big day and a big birthday for me. I never was a social animal, or a popular kid in the class. I was a shy, lanky one. I had a few close friends, I wasn't a loner. But for the 15th birthday I stepped out of my shell of shyness and invited about two dozen friends. The party was going to be prepared by my grandparents who lived an hour by train away from Zagreb, my hometown. The day started grey and rainy, but that couldn't dampen my mood. In the morning a couple of kids from school called to say they wouldn't come, but I expected a few cancellations, what with the train travel and all. The number was still over twenty. It would be fun, I knew.
Around noon, as I rode the streetcar to the train station, the rain turned into snow. The wind picked up, just like today, and whipped the wet, heavy flakes in my face, stinging my eyes and dripping down my nose as I stood next to the newspaper kiosk at the station where we agreed to meet. Soon, the gang started arriving - a judo teammate, a friend from school, a neighbor. All was well. Two more came soon after. And - no one else. We waited. I went to make a few phone calls. Friends were apologetic - it's snowing outside, they assumed the party was off. It wasn't planned to be outside, I protest. They know, but now it's too late to make it to the train station. They are sorry. They all sounded false, snug in their warm homes. And just like that, what was supposed to be the grandest birthday party of my life, became a sad little procession of a few friends.
The others tried to cheer me up. I laughed half-heartedly at their jokes, but I couldn't get the betrayal out of my head. We arrived to my grandparents' place. They worked and lived at a gym, so they "commissioned" a large meeting room, dragged in two long desks and benches, then loaded it with treats. They worked on my birthday party the whole day, preparing the place and food. There was roasted piglet, roasted chickens, several kind of salads, potatoes, pasta, home baked bread and other pastries. There was so much food, it was literally spilling from the plates. On a square table in the corner were sweets, waiting for the main course to be dispatched of by the horde of hungry teenagers. Grandma made sure all my favorites were there: rum-pie, apple strudel, walnut and poppy-seed rolls, chocolate balls, and many more. Amidst that feast stood the six of us, lost and not quite hungry.
Grandma, seeing what happened, disappeared downstairs to their apartment. We goofed around, ate a little and played records. Then grandma reappeared with kids from the neighborhood. I used to play with them when I was younger, spending Summer holidays at grandparents', but we've fallen out of touch. I'm not sure what grandma told them, but here they were, four girls and two boys, clutching hastily wrapped gifts which they had no time to buy, so they must have been their own, previously used things. I didn't really care for the gifts. The surprising appearance of those six, whom I neglected to invite at the first place, yet here they were, leaving whatever they were doing and showing up to reinforce our numbers - it touched me deeply, and made me ashamed in equal measure. Suddenly the room wasn't so big and empty any longer. It took a while to get into the party mood, with us being from the "big town", and the newcomers feeling inferior, but the gap, if there ever was one, was soon bridged with a few mean jokes that made us all laugh equally.
Hours later, fed to bursting, we sang around a friend who played guitar - grandpa graciously let us use his - laughed and enjoyed our time. We even snuck into the gym after, to play some sort of a ball game in the dark. We were shadows in the night, the only light a faint moonlight through the windows. We played dodge the ball, and the hilarity of the ball's thud as it connected with the flesh, followed by inevitable grunt of the targeted, sent us sprawling on the floor in fits of laughter.
Riding the train back home on now clear night, snow all but melted away, I realized who my true friends were. They were sitting next to me on the train, or sleeping exhausted at home after such an impromptu party. The others…well, they actually didn't matter.
I never held a birthday party again. Oh, I celebrated birthdays, always in a small circle of close friends I cared about. Lately, those are few and far between, but M and I manage to make even the most mundane birthday feel like a celebration of life! It never snowed on my birthday again.
Although, the way the winter isn't letting up, maybe this year I'll have a white birthday.
Four "promising" books to avoid at all cost
Every now and then I hit a bad stretch in terms of the choice of books to read. I read a lot, and it's inevitable to bump into a bad book every now and then, but in February and early March I plucked four consecutive duds!
It started with "The Age of Miracles" by Karen Thompson Walker, of which I wrote earlier in this blog. A promising premise in that one! I can't help but feel cheated when the story took a wrong turn and became rumblings of a teenager who just happened to live in interesting times, when the Earth's rotation slows rapidly and affects the life on the planet. You can read my full rant here.
---
Next, I listened to the audiobook "The Company We Keep: A Husband-and-Wife True-Life Spy Story" by Robert and Dayna Baer. A real life love story of a CIA couple - what a gem to read for a journalist, I thought. Better yet, a part of it happens in Croatia and Bosnia, where I spent a few years of my photo-journalistic career. And that's where the problem lays. Well, first I had to try and get over the horrible reading of the book. The authors have done it themselves, and I was excited with the prospect of hearing the real CIA lingo, but there was none of it - they read like semi-literate high school students, without emotion, in flat tone. They also butchered every local term and name they mentioned. After a while I listened with permanent goosebumps, as if they were dragging fingernails across the blackboard the whole time.
The premise of the book is - two CIA operatives describe their spying jobs, making it sound more mundane than any regular office job, in places that would sound exotic if anyone else was telling the story - Kazakhstan, Middle East, Latin America, and, finally, the Balkans. It's a collection of loosely connected anecdotes, which didn't say much about the life and work of CIA operatives, except that they were utterly clueless about the real life in places they operated at. They travel with pre-assumed American attitude and that never changes. They see local life only through the lens of their occupation and their country's interests. After getting over being irked with their naivety, I actually felt sorry for them. The book was also supposed to be about them falling in love and screwing up their respective previous marriages, so they can start a new one. Except, there was no romance - there was only a long car ride from Croatia to the south of France when Dana sort of figured out that she likes Bob, but if you wanted more juice, you were out of luck. They either weren't romantic, or don't know how to write it in the book.
Lastly, mind-jarring for me was a blatant inaccuracy that could (and should) have been caught by any writer with an IQ higher than rainworm's: there is a scene when another couple is sent to relieve Dana and her CIA partner in Sarajevo. Dana says there was nothing to eat in the apartment, so the replacements went to grab a pizza in the town of Mostar, which, she said, was half an hour drive away. Well, even a casual search on Google maps will show you how inaccurate that is - Mostar is, according to Google, 129 kms away from Sarajevo, which is 2 hrs drive. With the checkpoints, I would guess at least double that time - I've done the drive a few times myself at about the same time, and it always took the whole day. On the way back from Mostar, allegedly, the woman was shot in the stomach. It's the event that ejects Dana and Bob from Bosnia for good, so it's important. Yet, she didn't get the places, the distances and the circumstances right. If she lied about that, what else they lied about in the book? Yes, it leaves the sour taste.
---
After those two rotten apples, I dove into Salman Rushdie's "Midnight's Children" with great expectations. He won Booker prize for it, after all, it's bound to be good!
I read his "The Enchantress Of Florence" previously and loved it. But, when the "Children" started, it felt deja vu. It felt the same as the Enchantress. Same jokes, same light tone, same mixing of fantasy and history. Except in the Children, Rushdie kept telling through his narrator what he's going to write next. I hate when the book is hinting what will happen in the next chapter. I was put off with the tone, style and the corruption in India for about a hundred pages, then I simply gave up. There are just so many jokes about the big nose (of the main character) and lame "comical" situations I can digest in one book. When reality started mixing with fantasy too much, when what was supposed to be funny became forced and dull, it was a sign to put it down.
---
The last in this rotten quartet was "The Midwife of Venice" by Roberta Rich. The story develops simultaneously in Venice and Malta in 1573. Historical fiction is my favorite, as long as it's plausible. Well, the Midwife was hard to swallow. Here's why:
Hannah and her husband Isaac were Jews from the Ghetto in Venice. She was extremely skilled midwife, but without a child of her own. He was a merchant enslaved on Malta, pending ransom. As the book opened, Hannah went to deliver a Venetian nobleman's baby in exchange for a handsome sum so she can ransom Isaac. The thing is - it was illegal for a Jew to tend to a christian, punishable by death not only hers, but the whole of the ghetto too. Yet she did it for the love of her husband. So far, so good. The descriptions of the midwifing were too expansive and too detailed, but all in all it was suspenseful and entertaining.
Then the problem started - with the plausibility. The nobleman whose boy she delivered had two brothers whose inheritance would go to the infant, so they naturally wanted the baby dead. Yet, the parents decided to go on a trip and leave the baby behind in their palace at mercy of the brothers. They traveled to Ferrara, the trip that the author informed us, takes 3-4 days. The same evening one brother tried to kill the baby, but Hannah followed him and saved the boy by stabbing and killing the bad guy. The NEXT DAY she took the baby back to the palace - the parents should have been somewhere half the way to Ferrara by then - yet the servant opened the door, told Hannah they got a word from Ferrara that boys parents have died from the plague which scourges Venice at the time, and shooed Hannah away. Now - how is it possible that not only they reached Ferrara so quick, but they also managed to die from the plague - all over one night!
As the story went on, it got more and more unbelievable - characters appearing always at the nick of time with the only possible solution Hannah needed to solve problems the plot presented her with. The ending was happy, entirely unsurprising and uninspired.
The story had so much going for it, it was almost more difficult to screw it up, than to end it properly. Yet, the author managed to ruin the promising tale.
It started with "The Age of Miracles" by Karen Thompson Walker, of which I wrote earlier in this blog. A promising premise in that one! I can't help but feel cheated when the story took a wrong turn and became rumblings of a teenager who just happened to live in interesting times, when the Earth's rotation slows rapidly and affects the life on the planet. You can read my full rant here.---
Next, I listened to the audiobook "The Company We Keep: A Husband-and-Wife True-Life Spy Story" by Robert and Dayna Baer. A real life love story of a CIA couple - what a gem to read for a journalist, I thought. Better yet, a part of it happens in Croatia and Bosnia, where I spent a few years of my photo-journalistic career. And that's where the problem lays. Well, first I had to try and get over the horrible reading of the book. The authors have done it themselves, and I was excited with the prospect of hearing the real CIA lingo, but there was none of it - they read like semi-literate high school students, without emotion, in flat tone. They also butchered every local term and name they mentioned. After a while I listened with permanent goosebumps, as if they were dragging fingernails across the blackboard the whole time.
The premise of the book is - two CIA operatives describe their spying jobs, making it sound more mundane than any regular office job, in places that would sound exotic if anyone else was telling the story - Kazakhstan, Middle East, Latin America, and, finally, the Balkans. It's a collection of loosely connected anecdotes, which didn't say much about the life and work of CIA operatives, except that they were utterly clueless about the real life in places they operated at. They travel with pre-assumed American attitude and that never changes. They see local life only through the lens of their occupation and their country's interests. After getting over being irked with their naivety, I actually felt sorry for them. The book was also supposed to be about them falling in love and screwing up their respective previous marriages, so they can start a new one. Except, there was no romance - there was only a long car ride from Croatia to the south of France when Dana sort of figured out that she likes Bob, but if you wanted more juice, you were out of luck. They either weren't romantic, or don't know how to write it in the book.
Lastly, mind-jarring for me was a blatant inaccuracy that could (and should) have been caught by any writer with an IQ higher than rainworm's: there is a scene when another couple is sent to relieve Dana and her CIA partner in Sarajevo. Dana says there was nothing to eat in the apartment, so the replacements went to grab a pizza in the town of Mostar, which, she said, was half an hour drive away. Well, even a casual search on Google maps will show you how inaccurate that is - Mostar is, according to Google, 129 kms away from Sarajevo, which is 2 hrs drive. With the checkpoints, I would guess at least double that time - I've done the drive a few times myself at about the same time, and it always took the whole day. On the way back from Mostar, allegedly, the woman was shot in the stomach. It's the event that ejects Dana and Bob from Bosnia for good, so it's important. Yet, she didn't get the places, the distances and the circumstances right. If she lied about that, what else they lied about in the book? Yes, it leaves the sour taste.
---
After those two rotten apples, I dove into Salman Rushdie's "Midnight's Children" with great expectations. He won Booker prize for it, after all, it's bound to be good!
I read his "The Enchantress Of Florence" previously and loved it. But, when the "Children" started, it felt deja vu. It felt the same as the Enchantress. Same jokes, same light tone, same mixing of fantasy and history. Except in the Children, Rushdie kept telling through his narrator what he's going to write next. I hate when the book is hinting what will happen in the next chapter. I was put off with the tone, style and the corruption in India for about a hundred pages, then I simply gave up. There are just so many jokes about the big nose (of the main character) and lame "comical" situations I can digest in one book. When reality started mixing with fantasy too much, when what was supposed to be funny became forced and dull, it was a sign to put it down.
---
The last in this rotten quartet was "The Midwife of Venice" by Roberta Rich. The story develops simultaneously in Venice and Malta in 1573. Historical fiction is my favorite, as long as it's plausible. Well, the Midwife was hard to swallow. Here's why:
Hannah and her husband Isaac were Jews from the Ghetto in Venice. She was extremely skilled midwife, but without a child of her own. He was a merchant enslaved on Malta, pending ransom. As the book opened, Hannah went to deliver a Venetian nobleman's baby in exchange for a handsome sum so she can ransom Isaac. The thing is - it was illegal for a Jew to tend to a christian, punishable by death not only hers, but the whole of the ghetto too. Yet she did it for the love of her husband. So far, so good. The descriptions of the midwifing were too expansive and too detailed, but all in all it was suspenseful and entertaining.
Then the problem started - with the plausibility. The nobleman whose boy she delivered had two brothers whose inheritance would go to the infant, so they naturally wanted the baby dead. Yet, the parents decided to go on a trip and leave the baby behind in their palace at mercy of the brothers. They traveled to Ferrara, the trip that the author informed us, takes 3-4 days. The same evening one brother tried to kill the baby, but Hannah followed him and saved the boy by stabbing and killing the bad guy. The NEXT DAY she took the baby back to the palace - the parents should have been somewhere half the way to Ferrara by then - yet the servant opened the door, told Hannah they got a word from Ferrara that boys parents have died from the plague which scourges Venice at the time, and shooed Hannah away. Now - how is it possible that not only they reached Ferrara so quick, but they also managed to die from the plague - all over one night!
As the story went on, it got more and more unbelievable - characters appearing always at the nick of time with the only possible solution Hannah needed to solve problems the plot presented her with. The ending was happy, entirely unsurprising and uninspired.
The story had so much going for it, it was almost more difficult to screw it up, than to end it properly. Yet, the author managed to ruin the promising tale.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Family Day
 |
| Photo credit: Erik Anestad / Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND |
How I wish to introduce M to those times! But, no one has yet discovered how to turn back time, and all I have to offer are words soaked with memories. Even if we moved to the place where such dinners--and such friends--were possible, would it really be that way again? Or, did the winds of time blow away the lifestyle of the past?
In my heart and soul I long for Sundays, but in reality do they even exist enymore? I carry the curse of an immigrant: to me, the picture is frozen forever on the Sunday's scene, while in reality the world has moved on, and life with it; friends became strangers with their own busy lives and no time for dinners. Except, perhaps, with an advance notice and appointment. Maybe, in reality, I will never be able to re-create those Sundays for M, to introduce her to life I once had. But that doesn't mean I should stop trying.
Because, who knows, maybe someday somewhere we'll come across a few people who cherish the same things, the simpler life, and with a little luck, we'll call each others "friends."
Here's to friends and holidays that feel like Sundays of my youth!
 |
| M's fabulous pork roast -- Photo: @margoboz |
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Book: The Age of Miracles
A Novel by Karen Thompson Walker
The premise of the story was promising - a dystopian look at what would happen if the Earth inexplicably started slowing down its rotation. The problem was the narrator - 11-year-old Julia. Instead of high drama of looming catastrophe with all the possibilities of horrific personal stories that could have been told, we get the doubts and insecurities of a near-teenager coming of age in unusual circumstances - a casual setting of the 'slowing' as a background. At first it seems a nice way to tell the story of a dying planet through the eyes of a child. Soon though, it becomes clear that Julia (and the author through her) are more focused on exploring the girl's romantic interests and the threat of her own family falling apart, rather than getting into the effect a global tragedy can have on all of them and humanity in general. It also seems as if the plot itself gradually slows down with the earth's rotation and there are some seriously slow patches you'll have to pull through. I would have given it 2/5, were it not for the ending. Without giving anything away, I can only admit that it was sad, but well done. Finally the author's mastery of words, which came across only in sparse hints through the rest of the book, bloomed in full beauty in the last few paragraphs of the novel. And for that it deserves another notch: 3/5
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Parking rage (Or: How a Mercedes blocking an icy sidewalk made me lose my cool)
I've fallen victim to my own wild side in a case of parking rage yesterday. As I age, those episodes affect me more - even a day later I still can't stop thinking about it. Here's what happened:
M and I share the ride to work. Since my workplace is farther away, I drop her off and pick her up. Being a bit early, I pulled into the parking lot behind her building and squeezed to a spot near the exit doors. The parking wasn't full, there were quite a few spots available. A white Mercedes SUV crawled along the path and stopped in front of my car, right on the path. At first I didn't pay it much attention. It was a fine car - a big, expensive SUV, with tinted windows and vanity plates. Everything on it screamed money, even the fact that it was spotlessly clean on a day of freezing rain and snow slush. A young woman driver immediately pulled out her phone and started typing on it. I found it odd that she didn't pull into some of the empty spots, but thought that she must have been texting whomever she was picking up, and they'll be gone soon.
Minutes passed. Finally, the white Mercedes moved, slowly, reluctantly, and crawled right in front of the building door, where it stopped. It completely blocked the path for the people leaving work. I watched a guy with a briefcase slipping on ice while scrambling around the car. A couple of women loaded with bags gingerly navigated by it. All along, the woman in the Mercedes typed on her phone, oblivious of the mini-chaos she caused.
The longer I watched people emerging and tripping, sliding and struggling around her, the more my blood boiled. How on earth can someone be so inconsiderate? Does it come with the money? With the status? Or is being an absolute, egocentric jerk simply natural for certain people? Whatever the case, the Mercedes woman mastered the art of it!
The last straw was pulled when M came out of the building. By now I was watching the scene for good 15 minutes. M pulled her wheeled computer suitcase, had her purse on the shoulder and two bulky bags in the other hand. She glared at the car, but the driver didn't notice. As we were leaving, I honked to ask her to move just a bit forward and leave some space for people to pass by. Nothing happened. I honked longer, with the same effect. Finally, I pulled next to Mercedes and laid on the horn. Nothing! I simply couldn't believe. Being so thoroughly ignored was maddening! Powered by righteous rage, I stepped out of the car, knocked - or, rather, banged - on her window, making her jump. Since she wouldn't open the window, I yelled "Could you move and give people some room?" She shot me a look of contempt, but moved the car. Finally defusing myself, I drove away. Leaving the parking lot I saw in the mirror her reverse lights coming on as she pulled right back to where she'd been.
Don't you ever wish you could do something really naughty? Like cut her tires, ram her car and push it away, or simply blow it up? All of it went through my head as we drove away. When the adrenaline finally dissipated, I felt exhausted and - sad. What kind of place is this world becoming? Driving around Toronto, I come across similar examples of selfishness every day. What happened to considerate people in friendly towns of my youth? Do they still exist? Is imagining yourself in someone else's shoes becoming a forgotten skill? For example, if the Mercedes woman only thought how would it feel to walk in her high heels on ice around someone's car blocking the path, I'm certain she would move the car. Then again, maybe I am thinking too highly of her. People like that, in expensive clean cars, wearing stylish clean cloths, are usually full of dirt inside. And it shows, no matter how much they try to mask it with the glitz.
Tweet me: @zoranbee
M and I share the ride to work. Since my workplace is farther away, I drop her off and pick her up. Being a bit early, I pulled into the parking lot behind her building and squeezed to a spot near the exit doors. The parking wasn't full, there were quite a few spots available. A white Mercedes SUV crawled along the path and stopped in front of my car, right on the path. At first I didn't pay it much attention. It was a fine car - a big, expensive SUV, with tinted windows and vanity plates. Everything on it screamed money, even the fact that it was spotlessly clean on a day of freezing rain and snow slush. A young woman driver immediately pulled out her phone and started typing on it. I found it odd that she didn't pull into some of the empty spots, but thought that she must have been texting whomever she was picking up, and they'll be gone soon.
Minutes passed. Finally, the white Mercedes moved, slowly, reluctantly, and crawled right in front of the building door, where it stopped. It completely blocked the path for the people leaving work. I watched a guy with a briefcase slipping on ice while scrambling around the car. A couple of women loaded with bags gingerly navigated by it. All along, the woman in the Mercedes typed on her phone, oblivious of the mini-chaos she caused.
The longer I watched people emerging and tripping, sliding and struggling around her, the more my blood boiled. How on earth can someone be so inconsiderate? Does it come with the money? With the status? Or is being an absolute, egocentric jerk simply natural for certain people? Whatever the case, the Mercedes woman mastered the art of it!
The last straw was pulled when M came out of the building. By now I was watching the scene for good 15 minutes. M pulled her wheeled computer suitcase, had her purse on the shoulder and two bulky bags in the other hand. She glared at the car, but the driver didn't notice. As we were leaving, I honked to ask her to move just a bit forward and leave some space for people to pass by. Nothing happened. I honked longer, with the same effect. Finally, I pulled next to Mercedes and laid on the horn. Nothing! I simply couldn't believe. Being so thoroughly ignored was maddening! Powered by righteous rage, I stepped out of the car, knocked - or, rather, banged - on her window, making her jump. Since she wouldn't open the window, I yelled "Could you move and give people some room?" She shot me a look of contempt, but moved the car. Finally defusing myself, I drove away. Leaving the parking lot I saw in the mirror her reverse lights coming on as she pulled right back to where she'd been.
Don't you ever wish you could do something really naughty? Like cut her tires, ram her car and push it away, or simply blow it up? All of it went through my head as we drove away. When the adrenaline finally dissipated, I felt exhausted and - sad. What kind of place is this world becoming? Driving around Toronto, I come across similar examples of selfishness every day. What happened to considerate people in friendly towns of my youth? Do they still exist? Is imagining yourself in someone else's shoes becoming a forgotten skill? For example, if the Mercedes woman only thought how would it feel to walk in her high heels on ice around someone's car blocking the path, I'm certain she would move the car. Then again, maybe I am thinking too highly of her. People like that, in expensive clean cars, wearing stylish clean cloths, are usually full of dirt inside. And it shows, no matter how much they try to mask it with the glitz.
Tweet me: @zoranbee
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Chicago - the most painful marathon I've ever run
There's a lesson to be learned from this experience. Maybe the cliche about the fragility of the body and the triumph of the spirit? Or, maybe, a lesson about perseverance? But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me step back.
Our hotel - Congress Plaza - was overlooking the start and finish area. I took a leisurely stroll in the morning to get to the start. It was the usual hype all around me - excited people of all shapes and colors swarming the baggage area, skipping, running, stretching. As usual, one can distinguish two types: chatters and observers. I was in the second category, standing on the side and watching people chattering endlessly to calm the excitement. Then the call came, we squeezed to our pre-assigned starting corals, the anthem was sang and the siren marked the start.
Around 16 km mark it happened without warning - my muscle snapped. You know how it usually happens in stories - there's a warning pain which the hero (that would be me) ignores, and the pain grows slowly, until all the hero can do is grind his teeth and continue with superhuman effort... well, that's all bullshit. It doesn't happen like that. One moment I was flying forward, the next there was a knife - no, a bayonet - in the back side of my thigh, the pain so sudden, so crippling that I stumbled and had to hold onto the fence to keep from falling. It all happened next to a medical tent, so in I went. The fantastically helpful first aid staff stretched me, gave me Biofreeze lotion which was supposed to freeze the area and dull the pain, and sent me on my way.
I limped a little. Then I tried to run. The pain was back in a flash, only this time the knife felt double the size. I may have whimpered, I'm certain I moaned. And stopped. And stretched. And limped to the next first aid tent a mile away.
From there, I mostly walked. The pain in the left leg was constant. Not any longer sharp stabbing of a knife, but more a ball of ember searing through the muscle. As I passed the half-way point and realized that I'm at least three hours away from the end, my heart sank. My spirit followed. I looked for the vehicle that can take me to the finish, to take my clothes, lay in bed and pull the cover over the head. I saw another medical tent - they had golf carts there for the quitters - and directed my hobbling self toward it. Then something happened.
All the fast runners were long gone, but a constant tide of slower pokes was streaming by. A man shuffled by me. Bent. Old. He could have been in his 70s. His run was barely faster than my walk - and I was really slow. On the back of his shirt was written in huge letters: "Pain is temporary, quitting is forever." I read it once. Scoffed. Then read it again. The man was so slow, it gave me enough time for the message to sink in. I looked around. There were people big and small, old and young; an amputee with a carbon-prosthetic leg, a blind man with two guides, a guy in a wheelchair. All of them slowly progressed toward the finish line. The man with a sign was almost gone by now. And I thought how nice it would be to get that finisher's medal hung around my neck. I'd like to say that the pain lessened, that a surge of energy carried me on - but that, again, happens only in stories. I, however, found much needed determination, grit my teeth and limped on.
For the rest of the race the pain stayed constant. Blessedly, it didn't worsen. As the finish gate drew close, I tried once more for a few running steps, and paid with pain so amplified I almost vomited. Again, I clung to the side fence and, after a few deep breaths, drag myself over the line. Unceremoniously, I finished Chicago marathon.
As for the lesson - it was about reaching deeper than I thought is possible and finding strength to go on.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Good morning all you crazy marathon runners!
Niagara Falls International Marathon, October 21, 2012
I slipped into my running armor I had prepared the night before. One piece at a time, they were all accounted for. It was 5:30 a.m. We heard a slight stir of activities in the hotel hallway. People were getting ready for the long day of races ahead, be it 5k, 10k, half or full marathon. A woman runner was already in her garbage bag, a known disposable piece of equipment to keep her warm before the race. Since there were still 5 more hours to go, it was far too early for us to put on our garbage bags. Beside, being steaming wet inside the plastic is not a very good idea before a race.
Little by little, the hotel lobby and the dark street were filled with throng of runners waiting to board the shuttles to the marathon start in Buffalo. The yellow school buses arrived and runners filed in orderly. We settled in our seats just behind the driver. The good spirit was reinforced when a runner said, "Good morning all you crazy marathon runners! But you all know the reason why when you cross the finish line!" Laughter erupted. It felt great. The transportation coordinator wished us good luck and off we were, down Queen Elizabeth Way to cross the Canada/US border at Peace Bridge, to the start. 
Our 45-minute bus ride ended at the local Albright-Knox Art Gallery, where we would keep ourselves warm until the start time. It was a neat little gallery with some famous painters' work like Paul Cézanne and Salvador Dali. However, putting marathon runners in an art gallery was proven, at least this time by us, to be not a very bright idea. A place where runners couldn't eat and drink, which was so important for pre-race hydration and fuel-up, where they were being chased out to the court yard or front door for their carb and fluid intake. They should consider putting runners in a regular gym instead of an art gallery next time, nowhere near the building patrolled by food and drink security.
Our clear bags with passports in were loaded into the secured trucks for safe storage and transportation to the Canadian side while we ran. There were close to 1,300 marathon participants. A small number, to keep everything well controlled and organized. The American and Canadian anthems were sang and we readied our GPS tracking app on our iPhones. Then the race started in a joyful atmosphere. Zoran and I followed the crowd and occasionally pulled ourselves back a little when we realized we were running faster then we should have. We were all very excited. But I paid for it big time later in the race and regretted not running even slower in the first half.
It was 6.5k from the start to the Peace Bridge where we crossed the border from the States back to Canada. The loop we ran at Fort Erie felt very long. It was added intentionally to lengthen the route so we would finish exactly at the Niagara Horseshoe Fall. After the winding roads, we were back on the route that lead us straight to the finish. But this stretch would last for the next gruelling 30k.The volunteers were amazing and the water stations were sufficiently placed along the route. We were running a 6-min per kilometre pace, and often well under 6min/k. Without a watch to pace ourselves, it was hard to control our pace to maintain the pre-planned 6:20 min/k. It was sunny, not a single cloud, the wind was refreshing, and it was exciting, but I was too excited. A group of runner/walkers was following us and using us to gage their pace. Every time they resumed running, they would catch up with us. It was getting annoying and stressful, so Zoran and I sped up a little just so they wouldn't be able to catch us on their approximately 10th running interval. We lost them, successfully at 25k, but that was the point when the pain in my left knee started to flare up.
During those last 3.5k, I saw people who were running along side with us just moments earlier, now standing on the grass watching the runners passing by. I knew how they felt and I gave them my silent wish to come back to finish the course. My left knee was giving out, and for a moment I saw myself not finishing the race. I felt disappointed in myself. I was in a lot of pain. My battle had turned from physical to mental. Then I remembered what Zoran told me during his agony at the Chicago Mararthon. He was with the medic who was bandaging his torn hamstring at 16k, when he saw a senior runner passing by and his t-shirt read, "Pain is temporary, quitting is forever." My mind was set.
I hunched, my arms tight against my body. I tried swinging them with the biggest efforts I could make to propel my legs, but it was trivial. It felt like my feet were dragging two car-tires. My knees, quads and calves were burning and cramping. The painful steps took away my awareness to the surroundings. The thoughts of failure came on like heavy raindrops hitting the ground, "Am I going to make it?", "Will I have a heart attack?", "I think I'm going to die and will never cross the finish line.", "May be I should stop..."
The agony and disappointment overwhelmed me. Zoran said, "No, no, no. No stopping now! You'll finish it!" I choked and fought back tears. I whispered to myself, "Ok, ok..." I was miserable, but I wanted to get it done. "I can see the Falls! Come on, you can do it!" Zoran exclaimed. I didn't believe it at first. I thought the finish couldn't be that close. But I was wrong. I could really see the finish arch just hiding behind the curve. I wanted to speed up, but I couldn't. My joints were in flame and the pain was excruciating. I was moving like a snail, but glad I was still able to.
In my delirious state of mind, I realized I have to walk over to one of the medics, so he can put a thermal blanket on me, and a little further down a volunteer hung the finisher's medal around my neck. I sat down on the curb to switch off my running tracker. And there I saw my brother and sister's comments during the race. I knew they would be cheering for me in cyber space. Zoran, who was there with me, for me, despite his hamstring injury, congratulated me. He is my coach, my kick in the rear end. He was running with me to make sure I was ok and that I finish the race.
The Niagara Falls International Marathon marked my journey and now I can proudly call myself a marathoner. But the medal and title aside, the most important thing I've come to learn is to respect the distance. Running 42.2 kilometres is no easy challenge and should not be taken lightly. It involves a lot of time, training, sweat, injuries and healing to prepare your body and mind to tackle the distance on race day. The journey was long and hard. It was a valuable experience not about how much you can run, but how much you can endure when you can no longer run.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Lance Armstrong is (still) a champion
an essay
Lance Armstrong is the seven-times Tour de France winner!
Many of us witnessed that super-human feat, curtesy of detailed TV broadcasts. I remember rushing home to watch the highlights of some of the more intense stages. Sometimes Lance seemed so cocky, so untouchable that I cheered for anyone but him. Yet at the end, seeing him hoisting the trophy seemed right. He was the greatest. He made cycling sexy.
I remember a conversation I had with a colleague during his seventh triumphant le Tour. He asked if I thought Armstrong was doping. I said without hesitation that yes, I believed he was. Did it make his victories any less amazing? Not for me!
I believe everyone on that level was taking something. It was not only the race of strength, grit and stamina, it was also the behind-the-curtain chemistry contest. The team with the best dope-lab stood the best chance to win. And, since I think that everyone was doping, the field was level. Armstrong was simply the man with the best legs and the best chemist.
Time and time over, the names in the closest competition with Armstrong were banned for using forbidden substances. The most recently remembered one is the man who was supposed to take the winning torch from Armstrong - Alberto Contador. It only proves my reasoning right.
As an amateur marathon runner - admittedly non-competitive, but no stranger to exhaustion and grueling pain of an endurance sport - I could only try to imagine how much work goes into the making of an elite cyclist. It isn't enough to sit on the couch and inject something with capitalized letters into your vein to make you an instant champion. Especially not when the other guys are doing exactly the same thing. You still need to pedal thousands of miles, sweat and bleed to earn the crown.
At the end, unless Armstrong's alchemist discovered an extremely potent and unique formula to be injected into Lance's system, it must have been a combination of strength, experience, tactics and probably most of all determination that took him over the other, lesser cheats.
Now, when the man has retired, and the cleanup of the sport of cycling is under way, some smart bureaucrat decided to make him an example. Armstrong's grip on the sport he dominated for a good decade has lessened and the minions who doped along with him found the courage of the pack to break the vow of silence.
What did it all do to the sport of cycling? It forever tainted it in the eyes of many fans.
See, Armstrong was a hero! He won that race seven times! He was never caught doping. That doesn't mean he was clean, but it means he outsmarted everybody trying to get him. In that matching of grits and wits he won - seven times! Stripping him of the titles is ridiculous.
Today, he is being vilified in the media around the globe. The same reporters who praised him to heaven are kicking him in the groin, now that he'd been brought down. Hypocrites decided to destroy the legend in the name of the "fair play", while already a new cheat must be laughing behind their backs.
You will notice that I haven't mentioned Armstrong as a cancer survivor and his accomplishments for his cancer-fighting cause, which are also halted by the action of the righteous bunch. Even focusing on the sports and cheating aspect only, I can argue that the right is actually wrong this time.
In conclusion, stripping Armstrong of his seven Tour de France titles, doesn't build the trust in the fairness of the sport of cycling. It's a pathetic effort to show that something is being done to clean the sport, but the cleaning should go forward in time, not backward.
To all of you who participate in this crucifixion of Armstrong, I congratulate your newfound, if hypocritical, sense of right. I may be just a sentimental fool, but I'd rather have a tainted hero than no hero at all.
 |
Stripped--On Monday, Oct 22, International Cycling Union - UCI - stripped Lance Armstrong of his 7 Tour de France Titles. "Lance Armstrong has no place in cycling and he deserves to be forgotten in cycling," said Pat McQuaid, the president said of the UCI. "This is a landmark day for cycling." (Image borrowed from this blog)
|
Lance Armstrong is the seven-times Tour de France winner!
Many of us witnessed that super-human feat, curtesy of detailed TV broadcasts. I remember rushing home to watch the highlights of some of the more intense stages. Sometimes Lance seemed so cocky, so untouchable that I cheered for anyone but him. Yet at the end, seeing him hoisting the trophy seemed right. He was the greatest. He made cycling sexy.
I remember a conversation I had with a colleague during his seventh triumphant le Tour. He asked if I thought Armstrong was doping. I said without hesitation that yes, I believed he was. Did it make his victories any less amazing? Not for me!
I believe everyone on that level was taking something. It was not only the race of strength, grit and stamina, it was also the behind-the-curtain chemistry contest. The team with the best dope-lab stood the best chance to win. And, since I think that everyone was doping, the field was level. Armstrong was simply the man with the best legs and the best chemist.
Time and time over, the names in the closest competition with Armstrong were banned for using forbidden substances. The most recently remembered one is the man who was supposed to take the winning torch from Armstrong - Alberto Contador. It only proves my reasoning right.
As an amateur marathon runner - admittedly non-competitive, but no stranger to exhaustion and grueling pain of an endurance sport - I could only try to imagine how much work goes into the making of an elite cyclist. It isn't enough to sit on the couch and inject something with capitalized letters into your vein to make you an instant champion. Especially not when the other guys are doing exactly the same thing. You still need to pedal thousands of miles, sweat and bleed to earn the crown.
At the end, unless Armstrong's alchemist discovered an extremely potent and unique formula to be injected into Lance's system, it must have been a combination of strength, experience, tactics and probably most of all determination that took him over the other, lesser cheats.
Now, when the man has retired, and the cleanup of the sport of cycling is under way, some smart bureaucrat decided to make him an example. Armstrong's grip on the sport he dominated for a good decade has lessened and the minions who doped along with him found the courage of the pack to break the vow of silence.
What did it all do to the sport of cycling? It forever tainted it in the eyes of many fans.
See, Armstrong was a hero! He won that race seven times! He was never caught doping. That doesn't mean he was clean, but it means he outsmarted everybody trying to get him. In that matching of grits and wits he won - seven times! Stripping him of the titles is ridiculous.
Today, he is being vilified in the media around the globe. The same reporters who praised him to heaven are kicking him in the groin, now that he'd been brought down. Hypocrites decided to destroy the legend in the name of the "fair play", while already a new cheat must be laughing behind their backs.
You will notice that I haven't mentioned Armstrong as a cancer survivor and his accomplishments for his cancer-fighting cause, which are also halted by the action of the righteous bunch. Even focusing on the sports and cheating aspect only, I can argue that the right is actually wrong this time.
In conclusion, stripping Armstrong of his seven Tour de France titles, doesn't build the trust in the fairness of the sport of cycling. It's a pathetic effort to show that something is being done to clean the sport, but the cleaning should go forward in time, not backward.
To all of you who participate in this crucifixion of Armstrong, I congratulate your newfound, if hypocritical, sense of right. I may be just a sentimental fool, but I'd rather have a tainted hero than no hero at all.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Book: The Road
by Cormac McCarthy
Finally a post-apocalyptic novel without monsters - no vampires, zombies or other men-eaters, except men themselves. Who really needs fictitious demons when humans are more than capable of monstrosities beyond imagination?
The whole story happens on the road, in the world burned to ashes, where a man and a boy travel scavenging the deserted houses for food and looking for "good guys". They avoid hordes of cannibals, looters and thieves. All along, the man is coughing, the ashes taking his breath little by little, until the end.
Very dark story, extremely detailed in surviving ingenuity and unfortunately very possible. It leaves no hope at the end, except the hope in survival itself. There's no promised land or miraculous healing. It also leaves no illusions about people - all of them are monsters, with a very few exceptions. Prosaic and deeply disturbing.
The whole story happens on the road, in the world burned to ashes, where a man and a boy travel scavenging the deserted houses for food and looking for "good guys". They avoid hordes of cannibals, looters and thieves. All along, the man is coughing, the ashes taking his breath little by little, until the end.
Very dark story, extremely detailed in surviving ingenuity and unfortunately very possible. It leaves no hope at the end, except the hope in survival itself. There's no promised land or miraculous healing. It also leaves no illusions about people - all of them are monsters, with a very few exceptions. Prosaic and deeply disturbing.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Book: A Dance With Dragons
GRR Martin, it seems, is too busy with the production of HBO's TV series based on the first three books, which were fabulous. Or, he simply lost the flare for action, and is given to politics. Maybe he simply let too much time pass since the first books, and can't re-create the atmosphere he had there. Whatever the reason, this one was a bitch, slow and expansive, with (too many) new characters entering the story, while the old characters are trapped in place and the author can't think of a creative way to get them going again. Imagine a (very simple) video game in which your character is driven to the wall, and it keeps walking in place and pushing without going anywhere - that's how it felt with many of the old heroes we followed from previous books - Daenerys, Jon Snow, Arya, Tyrion, Jamie...no one is going anywhere, or doing anything of interest and essence, yet the book grew to 1,200 pages.
One thing I have to give Martin credit for - with his writing, raw and gritty, he keeps the promise of suspense going through the book, so you keep reading expecting something to happen. When nothing does, you feel betrayed.
When the next book comes out, I think I'll wait to see how readers like it, before deciding whether to read it or not.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Why did Bolt monkey around after winning 200 m gold?
Are you watching the Olympics? I am stealing every moment I can to watch. There's something special about the Games, something that makes me wait in suspense for sports I would never follow otherwise. Partly it's cheering for Canada - the Games, like nothing else in life, make me feel Canadian. And partly it's the atmosphere, and all the sports packed together in the same place and on tight schedule in just over two weeks. You get bored with diving, just switch the channel. There's track - still the queen of all sports - or boxing, or soccer, judo, wrestling, basketball, you name it.
With all the video available online, you can catch every action, from Usain Bolt bolting for gold, to the most bizarre sports like BMX downhill races where, as my colleague put it, "grown up men ride children's bikes over speed-bumps."
There's one thing that bothers me, though. Well, if truth be told, there are quite a few things, but this one is getting more obvious with every games: the weird behavior of elite athletes. Yahoo! sports pegged it on the "Ugly Americans" in this article, and I agree that they may have started the whole "I am the greatest" attitude, but it seems to be highly contageous.
Yesterday, golden boy Bolt easily won his second gold, adding 200 m to the 100 m one of a few days ago. That's an amazing feat! I tried to imagine how would I celebrate that moment, crossing the finish line way ahead of the pack, cameras swarming me instantly...and I couldn't. My imagination, as wonderful as it is, doesn't reach that high; I simply can't comprehend how is it being a class on its own, way above even the other fastest humans on earth. I somehow know that I would be humbled by the experience - I always am humbled with great success, of my own or the others - and I wouldn't cross the line with the index finger on my mouth, quieting the crowd who came to cheer me on. No, I'd rejoice in every voice raised in my honor, and wallow in the noise I caused. I'd probably raise my arms in triumph, and maybe point index fingers to the sky, as I sometimes do when I cross the finish line of my own marathon races. I know for certain I wouldn't drop to the ground to do push-ups. If I am extremely emotional, I could drop down to kiss the track, or some such nonsense. But, push-ups? Really, Usain?
Did he really feel the urge to complete his workout with some upper-body exercises, just as he finished the gold-medal Olympic race? Or was that showing his supremacy, saying "look at me, didn't even break a sweat, now I have to do some push-ups to look tired for the cameras?" What are we, regular Joes and Janes watching from around the world, supposed to think? That in the euphoria of victory he doesn't really think? That he ran so fast, his brain was still catching up while the body kept itself busy, doing some exercising while waiting? What does it say about his respect for the competition? What happened to the humility of a great champion, someone the kids can look up to? Because, the kids will emulate everything, as they aped the American sports champs for decades. They seem to learn silly things much faster than true and humble ones.
It may truly be just a momentary silliness, but a great champion knows he is being watched in every moment, ESPECIALLY in the moment of his triumph. And so, applying brain before acting would seem like a good idea.
I can't not admire Usain Bolt for everything he is and all he's accomplished. I am really grateful for being able to witness him running and winning. I just wish that, in the time of other great victories he will most certainly achieve, he would return to the innocence of the Beijing days and those cocked arms pointing skyward in the dancing pose we remember.
Post Scriptum:
While I was typing this blog post, the news reports from Usain Bolt's press conference proved that the only thing bigger than his ego is his mouth. Thanks for the ride, Usain, it will be interesting to watch your descent (because, once you're on top, there's no place to go but down)!
Friday, August 3, 2012
De-socializing my life
I've tried hard to be socially active. I was on Facebook, Twitter, Yelp, Tumblr, Google plus, Blogger, Goodreads, DailyMile, and a few now-defunct services which disintegrated under my fingertips into digital dust (Excite.com, AOL blogs, Yahoo 360, MySpace, etc.).
Yes, I know, it was insane thinking I could maintain all of them. I guess I was craving social interaction with like-minded people, something to fill in the void of the friendless place we live in. What a folly!
What I got is a bunch of childhood friends on Facebook, curious to find out what I'm up to, with nothing in common to keep the interaction going after three exchanges. I also found out that the digital social scene is brimming with egocentrics who are more than ready to offer their opinions and utterly unable to empathize with mine. (The only exception to all this is Daily Mile, a network for fitness enthusiasts, with the most polite and supportive crowd you'll ever find anywhere, not limited to the net only.)
In the pit of my stomach I constantly felt mild anxiety for neglecting one or the other of those social tools. Finally I paused to think about that constantly present feeling that I'm missing something, and traced it to its roots. It was almost laughable how trapped I was in the social net I weaved myself. As it usually happens with complicated knots, the easiest way to deal with them was - to cut them. One by one I closed all accounts, until eventually there were left only the two I use for work: Twitter and Google+. And this blog, which is a diary of sort, and a place where my thoughts can roam to untangle and de-stress.
My social experiment didn't resolve friendlessness, and cutting it away actually gave me new freedom. I'm free of obligation to check and respond to real or perceived communication. I truly don't miss digital "friends".
Being by ourselves - my life always involves Meg, our hearts are conjoined twins beating like one - no longer means loneliness. We learned to love our time alone, involved in things we like to do, or enjoying the familiar silence.
As for the social experience - I never felt lonelier than when I was on social networks.
Yes, I know, it was insane thinking I could maintain all of them. I guess I was craving social interaction with like-minded people, something to fill in the void of the friendless place we live in. What a folly!
What I got is a bunch of childhood friends on Facebook, curious to find out what I'm up to, with nothing in common to keep the interaction going after three exchanges. I also found out that the digital social scene is brimming with egocentrics who are more than ready to offer their opinions and utterly unable to empathize with mine. (The only exception to all this is Daily Mile, a network for fitness enthusiasts, with the most polite and supportive crowd you'll ever find anywhere, not limited to the net only.)
In the pit of my stomach I constantly felt mild anxiety for neglecting one or the other of those social tools. Finally I paused to think about that constantly present feeling that I'm missing something, and traced it to its roots. It was almost laughable how trapped I was in the social net I weaved myself. As it usually happens with complicated knots, the easiest way to deal with them was - to cut them. One by one I closed all accounts, until eventually there were left only the two I use for work: Twitter and Google+. And this blog, which is a diary of sort, and a place where my thoughts can roam to untangle and de-stress.
My social experiment didn't resolve friendlessness, and cutting it away actually gave me new freedom. I'm free of obligation to check and respond to real or perceived communication. I truly don't miss digital "friends".
Being by ourselves - my life always involves Meg, our hearts are conjoined twins beating like one - no longer means loneliness. We learned to love our time alone, involved in things we like to do, or enjoying the familiar silence.
As for the social experience - I never felt lonelier than when I was on social networks.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
A Pic A Day: Sketch of an atrium
A glass ceiling of the atrium at work - looks better as a sketch than a picture. (Z)
Monday, May 14, 2012
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)