Shadow Tag

Shadow Tag by Louise Erdrich

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
What a fantastic idea, what a sloppy deliverance.Premise: a wife of a famous Native American painter realizes that her husband reads her diary and uses it to manipulate him by writing things she wants him to read.It's a dysfunctional marriage and she wants out of it, while he wants to keep the family together by all means. Unfortunately, the story lacks a really strong reason why she wants to break out. Both main characters are unlikable and I found it really difficult to cheer for either side. By the end, it all became a sick game with no possible solution.The reason I gave 4 stars, beside the promising, though unfulfilled idea, is the ending. It is so surprising that it changed my, until then mostly negative, impression of the book.

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Ecstasy, or pain?

...sometimes it's hard to tell.

(Found this photo while flipping through a magazine in a store)

The Anniversary

Our big day started with a splash-literally. We went for the morning run (Meg has been running with me for over a month) in the pouring rain. I'm still not sure if Meg liked it—she looked thoroughly soaked at the end. That always makes the hot shower so much sweeter afterward.

We were caught once before by a spring shower, but that was at the end of the run and we laughed it off. This time was the first time when she consciously ran into the rain. If the weather didn't stop her, especially on our anniversary, I think she's on the path to becoming a serious runner.

I am a weirdo, I know, talking about running in pissing rain on our anniversary, and describing it with such a joy! But, we DID mark the decade of coexisting in the same wedlock (why does the word 'wedlock' sound so ominous? Almost as if it was borrowed from a horror dictionary). We brunched at our new favorite dim sum place, then ended up spending the afternoon in downtown's entertainment district. We stayed there for a dinner in the French restaurant called Le Saint Tropez. The waiter was an older guy with such an exaggerated French accent that I couldn't make up my mind if he's faking it. Still, he was amusing, and so was the atmosphere and the sangria. Only when we came back home, after the nightcap glass of red, did the scenes from the past ten years start marching through my head. Though it seems the decade sneaked by us in half the time, we've been through a lot. We progressed in our jobs, became Canadians, settled down in a house of our own. The best of all is--we still enjoy each other's company the same as we did 10 years ago.

In days to come, we will be updating this blog with pictures from the places we visited on vacations and travels throughout the past 10 years.

The Gathering Storm by Robert Jordan

The Gathering Storm by Robert Jordan


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
After the passing of Robert Jordan I thought that no one can weave the pattern the way he could. I was wrong. Brendon Sanderson did a stellar job in this book.

To my opinion, first 3 books of the series were the best ones, then the pen-master Jordan started jamming more and more characters and events into the books and watered down the essence. Well, this book brought me back to the feeling I had when reading the first three. Sanderson is true to Jordan's characters, adopted the language, the plot and ideas seamlessly. Dare I say, he's pulled the miracle and made the book 12 more readable than the previous few. The apprentice have surpassed the master.

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I Ran Boston Marathon (part 2)

If you missed part one, click here.

The morning of April 19th started early—at 4 AM. I had to catch the subway to the downtown, then along some 24,000 like-minded lunatics board the school buses, which drove us to the start in Hopkington, a village some 40-ish kms from Boston. I spent the whole morning in lineups: to board the bus, to grab a bagel, to take a leak, to check-in my bag for the transport to the finish, and finally to line up for the start. From my starting corral (based on the race bib numbers, each corral contained a thousand runners) I turned to soak in the atmosphere. We were a bedraggled bunch, in shirts of all colors and designs. Most of us were wearing garbage bags, or other big plastic bags, heads poking out from the hole torn in the bottom, to keep warm on the chilly and breezy, but clear and sunny morning. From my vantage point, as far as eye could see, the road was packed with runners. Something stuck in my throat at the sight of so many people. The crowd of spectators was already ringing the cowbells and cheering, a band was playing in one of the courtyards along the road, but the runners were mostly quiet with faces set in determined expressions. There was some excited chatter in corrals, but that was mostly muted. We hoped in place to keep warm and waited. The tension was almost palpable, but it was positive energy waiting to be unleashed.

At 10:00 AM sharp the race started. The huge snake of people set off toward Boston, consisting of thousand of bodies all moving as a part of that enormous organism, all moving with the same purpose. It was exhilarating and touching being a part of it. I remember thinking at that moment how there wasn't a better way to celebrate a birthday. That same thought I was going to have many times throughout the course, but that was the first time, when the procession of runners wound its way through the ceaseless lineups of fans cheering us on, that I thought how special this day really was. I turned 45 that day, and although there are (hopefully) many more birthdays to come, it will be hard to match this one.

The crowd was beyond description: 42.2 kms of people stretching beside the road, whose wholehearted cheering carried me over some naughty hills and through bad stretches, when legs were numb and mind even number. Their whooping penetrated through the stupor and nudged me onward. Children stood with their hands raised to high-five those running on the side; people were offering their own fruit and drinks; in one town a group of students promoted beer as a perfect energy drink and even shared some with willing runners. Then there was Wellesley college, somewhere around the mid-point. It's famous for its "Scream Tunnel". The Wellesley College girls pack the road on both side and make such a noise, you can't hear your own thoughts. They offer free kisses, too. Unprepared, I thought it all a wonderful joke (which it actually is), but then I saw runners diving into the crowd, claiming their free kisses. No marathon brochure prepared me for it, and I missed the opportunity. Yes, I know, I'm a sucker!

The crowd at Heartbreak Hill was just as memorable—they had a sign half the way up the hill marking the half-point and the message "Don't let the hill break you," and another one at the top saying simply "You did it!" As the legs struggled and the stride shortened, they got louder. It was impossible not to be affected and carried by them.

Somewhere about a mile before finish I decided to get my last drink at the water station. I never learned to drink on the run. There is a technique where you squeeze the paper cup and pour the drink into your lips, but I pour just as much over my face and down the chest. I was all sticky and soaked in Gatorade I splashed all over myself on previous water stops. So, this time I decided to stop and drink the whole cup. With the cup in hand I stopped by the side fence to drink. At that moment people behind the fence started shouting and screaming "Don't stop now," "you're almost there," "keep going" and so on. I took another sip and they climbed the fence, practically hanging over me and shouting right in my ears. So much about drinking the whole cup. At the first running step I made, they broke into ovations. I felt like a champion. They high-fived me and I splashed the rest of the Gatorade as per usual all over my face, running on.

Boylston Street is where it all ends. When I turned into it, lined with the crowd five-thick on both sides, the feeling was such a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration, it almost brought me to tears. It was also the place where my very special cheerleaders—mom and Meg—were supposed to be. But, there were so many people, it was going to be impossible to see them. I ran, head swinging left and right, checking the crowd, losing hope. Then the shouts "Zoraaaaaan" came from the left and there they were, ringing the cowbells and waving their hearts out. I blew them a kiss, but didn't dare to stop, uncertain if I'd have strength enough to continue if I did. The finish line was only a few hundred meters away.


A footnote: I used my iPhone with a GPS application called RunKeeper to track my race. I even sent the link to friends who could follow my progress in real time. Unfortunately, the GPS signal was interrupted somewhere two thirds along the course, resulting in the straight line for the last 10 miles or so. Still, here's the map:



Click for blog post with our photos and video from Boston.

Boston Marathon

Here are the photos of the most exhausting and most fulfilling birthday I ever had - my 45th. I spent it running the famed Boston Marathon.



A part of the atmosphere near the finish, through the eyes of the spectators (Meg and my mom with her bells, but no whistles) was captured in this video:


2010 Boston Marathon from Margaret Bozicevic on Vimeo.

[Refuge]e

[Refuge]e by Adnan Mahmutovic


My rating: 2 of 5 stars
[Refuge]e is a wordy attempt with beautiful prose, but as disjointed as the life of the refugees it tries to convey.The story is about Almasa, a young Bosnian refugee, whose whole family was killed in the war in Bosnia, and who herself was raped and suffers deep psychological wounds. Unfortunately, just as we were allowed a glimpse into her life in Sweden, interwoven with her reflections on Bosnia, the book ends. Its 90-something pages are not nearly enough to tell such a complex story. Despite the author's unquestionable craftiness, there's more left wanting than it's given in this novella. It reads more like a collection of random notes and thoughts which are yet to be assembled into an expansive story.I am looking forward to more works by Adnan Mahmutovic, in hope that they'll justify his undoubted raw potential.Note: I won this book on Goodreads' giveaway contest.

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American Gods

American Gods by Neil Gaiman


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
It's all a metaphor, from the beginning to the end.

The old gods are the ones brought to the North American continent by travellers, migrants and immigrants, long before the continent was even called America. They feed on worship and thrive on sacrifices of their followers, but they don't do well in America, because people don't worship them, are forgetting them, and the old gods grow older and die forgotten. The main character, Shadow, is actually human, hired by one of the old gods, who calls himself Wednesday, to help recruit the old gods against the "modern gods" that people worship nowadays: Internet, cars, credit cards, computers, TV, phones and everything symbolizing modern times. The conflict seems inevitable...With all the gods marching through the pages of the book, it's natural to think that it's all about religion. It isn't. And you don't need to be an immigrant to grasp the ever-present conflict between old and new, past and future. I just never came across such a neatly woven allegory.There is a huge amount of mythology, legends, fairy tales and bonfire stories told masterfully through a cast of unlikely heroes. If the idea of aging gods scheming and scamming through life to scrape for a meager existence isn't attractive by itself to make you read it, there is fantastic dialogue to amuse the reader as well as many clever and funny twists. For someone who likes long tales like myself, this book is a gold mine. At the end, all the stories seemingly not connected throughout the novel, finally come together.There could have been a touch more romance, earthly or divine, I don't really care, but even without it, I thoroughly enjoyed the American Gods.Subnote: I read this book as a part of "1 Book 1 Twitter" book club (though I'm not certain if it can be called a book club, but it made me and about 50,000 others read it at the same time). Looking forward to the next one. You can join it on twitter by following @1b1t

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Old City Hall: A Novel

Old City Hall: A Novel by Robert Rotenberg


My rating: 2 of 5 stars
Rotenberg is a lawyer first, novelist second, and unfortunately it shows in the novel. It's a story about a fictional Canadian radio morning-show host, whose wife is found dead in the bathtub. He confesses to his newspaper delivery man that he killed her, and surrenders to the police. But, despite his confession, the things are not as straight forward as they seem.Oh, don't worry, I'm not throwing spoilers, this all happens in the first 20 pages of the book. After that, we are introduced to a long list of characters, mostly well developed, but by following so many threads at once, the story doesn't move anywhere for the next 200 pages. Then, as if the author realized the he should move the plot toward conclusion, things start happening all at once, without a hint beforehand. And, as a result, there is no real conclusion.What I like about the story is location - it's happening in Toronto, where I live. It gives the book an intimate feel. I am not quite sure how would a non-Torontonian like it. The legal process is described well, but the police investigation is a bit shallow and less believable. Oh, and Toronto Maple Leafs winning the Stanley cup is a pure fantasy, cute, but utterly impossible.What I don't like is too many characters, and at the same time lack of the main character. Too much legal and law stuff and too little investigation, clues, mystery and problem solving. The pace is way too slow. Finally, the thing I really hate is when the ending doesn't offer closure.

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I Ran Boston Marathon (part 1)

April 17-18, 2010

I tried to write the whole account of my Boston experience in one go, but I couldn't. Let's just say there never was enough time. Finally, I'm getting worried that the memories and impressions are slowly fading, and decided to write this entry in installments. Please, check back for the updates--I will be adding them into this entry.


Why is Boston marathon so important?

The answer to that question lays in the two and a half years that led me to Boston. From the moment when I set the goal to try to qualify for Boston, through the training for the Mississauga marathon where I qualified, finally to registering and training for the world oldest and most prestigious marathon. It's a long commitment which requires a lot of running.

I was fairly excited preparing for the trip, this also being my first marathon outside Canada, but the immensity of it didn't register until I took the subway to downtown Boston with my entourage of Meg and my mom in tow. On Sunday, the day before the race, we were going to the runners expo, which precedes every marathon. That's where the runners pick the official race kits with their numbers and spend hundreds of $$$ on things related to running. As the train approached the downtown, on each station more and more people came in, wearing Boston marathon official jackets, all models from two decades ago until this year's. It was as if, for the weekend, there were no one else in Boston but runners.

The crowds of runners were converging on the Hynes Convention Center, where the expo was held, from all sides, like ants. Though I usually can't stand overcrowded places, now I couldn't stop smiling. I am not sure how to describe the feeling: I felt at the same time small and insignificant as an individual, and extremely powerful and proud to be a part of that mass of runners which took over the town.

The expo was huge and you could find there anything your runner's mind ever imagined, and more. First, of course, I picked up my race bib number and the kit containing the timing chip, which this year we can keep as a souvenir. In the kit was also a blue-and-yellow Adidas technical shirt with long sleeves. Naturally, I had to buy the official jacket -- also Adidas -- for which I had to spring $90. No regrets, the jacket is nice and the Boston 2010 logo on the back is priceless.

Now we could start browsing, though the longer we stayed, the more crowded the Center got. I managed to see the second half of the video showing the course, and we shopped mostly for the souvenirs. Mom was fairly impressed with the whole atmosphere, but thought everything too expensive. It was her first close look at the running world, and the first time in the States, so she was as excited as me, though for different reasons.

Finally, some time after 3 PM, it became almost impossible to move around without locking shoulders with people. Our legs were heavy and I suddenly remembered that I should rest for
the big race the next day. We squeezed out and walked toward the subway in a current of people all carrying yellow Adidas bags with the race kits. The air was filled with nervous but positive energy. Walking in that mass of people who were all here for the same reason, I felt the excitement rising and knotting in the pit of my stomach.

The traditional pasta dinner was provided in the downtown for participants, but our hotel was away, near the airport, so we opted for the pasta dinner near the hotel. Loaded with carbs, I went to bed, expecting that I won't be able to sleep from excitement. Before every marathon, I usually spend a fitful night tossing, turning and waking up constantly. Not this time -- I slept like a baby and woke up at the sound of the alarm clock.

Continues at Part Two